Herald The Damned
by Eclipse Wing
Summary: Demons and ghosts are converging on Beacon Hills, California. As the infamous brothers trace the clues scattered around the country, the Pack try to hold onto their sanity in a world that is quickly spinning out of control.
1. Blood Moon

_This is based off an idea my friend had, and we've worked it through together. It has original characters in it, but mostly for the plot and otherwise it's weighted fairly equally between the TW guys and the SPN brothers. She's pretty much feeding me the TW plot while I work with the SPN side of things._

_It's an AU S3b, and runs alongside the last part of SPN from the end of s09e13 The Purge, although events in the episodes won't be written in explicitly, they might be mentioned or referenced, or they'll be an assumed time gap when they happen._

_Otherwise enjoy, and comments are always welcome!_

* * *

**CHAPTER 1 - BLOOD MOON**

It was dark at the crossroads.

His legs swing on the bench, a steady, slow rock back and forth.

Back and forth.

He stares sightlessly at the cheap gravel dirt road, not seeing the sign pointing four directions shake slightly in the breeze. His bare arms shiver with goose bumps, but he didn't appear to notice.

He blinks, lashes long and pretty. Too pretty. His hands fumble over each other uncomfortably, and he can hear his breath rasping in his throat.

Lights loom out of the dusk and he startles, and for a moment in the glare of the head lights his eyes shine brightly like yellow flares, and then with a quite rumple the car passes by, gravel crunching under the tyres.

His shoulders slump, and his breath rushes out in one large sigh. It catches though in a strangled sort of laugh, half-way to a sob and he chokes it down, one hand clawing valiantly at his eyes, pale blue blinking away salt.

On the bench besides him his phone buzzes, travelling centimetres across the surface with every vibration. It threatens to fall off the edge when it stops, screen going dark.

"Hey Lukey-boy!" a cheerful voice sounds fuzzy through the tiny speakers. "You showing your face tonight? I wanna' see you there, ya' hear me?" A beep and silence, and he's left alone again.

His fingers twitch to answer, but he curls his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms. His shoulders are trembling, and his breathing erratic and it takes him several seconds longer than it should to realise that his eyes are damp again.

He swipes a hand over them angrily. He's not weak. He's not a freaking girl either, and he stands, pacing along the bench.

The phone vibrates again, and he pauses, staring with disinterest at the bus timetable.

"Luke? We're going to see you tonight, right? And that's not a question, we're going to see you there. You're not going to let that little… mishap with the surgery get you down, got it?"

Another voice chimes in cheerfully. "Love ya' Luke!"

"Lexi!" the first voice hisses, and there's the sound of mad scrambling and whispered insults and the voicemail ends.

He's smiling despite of himself, and he pulls himself together, taking a long shaking breath.

His gaze strays towards the centre of the crossroads where the gravel is scattered, and then re-piled over some small object.

He tears his gaze away, stiff, cold fingers curling over the phone as he picks it up, lights flickering in the distance signalling the arrival of the bus home.

He leaves behind the crossroads as dim as they first appeared, but with the faint and fading scent of sulphur dying on the breeze.

* * *

"Where've you been?" she asks sharply as he arrives home, cold fingers struggling with the key in the lock when the door opens for him, revealing her disapproving face and worried eyes.

She steps aside as he moves in, and as he brushes against her she stiffens.

"What have you been up to? You're freezing!" she chides, as he shuffles awkwardly for a moment in the entrance hall, and then makes for the stairs.

He passes pictures on the dresser, of a mother and father playing with a little girl on the beach, with his blonde hair and blue eyes but it's not him. It's not. The pictures change visibly. The father vanishes and the little girl with sparkling eyes becomes a cute boy with short spiky hair that looks like it was cut with kitchen scissors, muddy jeans and a lone woman, smiling sadly just out of shot.

"Lucy!" his mum calls as he bangs past, trailing dirt and dry leaves through the living room. "Lucy!"

Luke ignores her. It's not his name, but it's easier to ignore it than to argue. He pauses at the backdoor to kick of his shoes before stomping upstairs, shivering already abating as a waft of warm air from the radiator drifts towards him.

He grabs his headphone from his desk and turns the music up loudly, drowning out whatever his mum calls up to him. He boots up his laptop, plugging in his memory stick and loading up a piece of school work, a half-written essay that knowing his luck, is probably due in tomorrow.

It feels weird, sitting here doing something as trivial as homework.

Especially considering what he's just done. What is going to happen to him… He shudders and his fingers fly across the keys, losing himself for a moment in the beat of his music and the mindlessness of the words.

A cold breeze passes across his back and he shivers. With a sigh he pulls the headphones off, listening to the curtains flap in the open window. It's cold outside, late February and the air is bitter and almost holds the promise of snow if it wasn't for the fact that British weather never turned out that nice, that simple.

When he turns around however there's a shadow leaning besides the open window, a small lithe girl grinning cheekily at him. She's about seventeen or eighteen, and when Luke notices her she waves at him, reflexively running her one hand over her short, pixie cut hair, choppy blonde locks illuminated by the streetlamp outside.

Luke jumps to his feet. "What the hell are you doing here?" he snarls. His face twists, morphing, and he snarls again, fangs bared. His eyes flash gold and he feels the hair grow on his forehead. It feels the same as ever, uncomfortably, and prickly, but then it's gone, and he's settled and as calm as an adolescent werewolf can be.

The girl steps back in alarm, her own eyes gold. She almost falls out of the window, and Luke figures that she probably would have if not for a second head to pop up, shoving her sister back in.

"Clumsy Nate," the little girl smirks, clambering in.

"Who the hell invited you Lexi?" 'Nate' hisses at the younger girl. The pair glare at each other and in profile they have the same high cheek bone, and small nose. Nate's hair is short where her younger sister's is still long and flowing.

"I can go where I wanna'!" Lexi sounds like the petulant twelve year old stereotype at that moment, "Stop telling me what to do Nate!"

The older sister rolls her eyes, turning back to where Luke lets his shift fade, as he sighs in frustration at the pair. The two sisters are the only daughters of the pack alpha, and born to being wolves in the same way that he totally wasn't.

"Where the hell have you been?" Nate demands of him.

"What do you mean?" he asks, sitting and leaning back in his chair and eying them warily.

Lexi flops on his bed like a fish. "Well duh!" she makes a rude gesture at the calendar pinned to his wall, "It's the full moon dummy!"

"And why do you want me there so badly?" he asks, detached and not meeting any of their gazes.

Nate rolls her shoulder, "Everyone's there. And you're going to be there too."

He looks about to protest, and then reconsiders. Luke glances back at his laptop screen and then to Nate. "Is Jethro going to be there?" he asks.

She smiles smugly, but it's Lexi who answers, "Yes!" she squeaks excitedly. "And if you'd looked at your phone dumbass, and stopped acting like our technology incompetent German teacher then you'd know that too!"

"I don't speak German," Luke snaps, but he slams his laptop closed. "Fine. I'll be there."

Nate rolls her eyes. Luke ignores her. He's accustomed to her antics, and isn't in the mood for them tonight.

"Awesome!" Lexi chirps.

"Seriously?" Luke blinks at her, "What's with the annoying fly, Nate?" he asks his friend.

She shrugs at him while Lexi (or Alexa) glares. "Dad asked me to watch her. She's stuck to my tail for the whole evening while he gets things set up."

"Sounds fun," Luke grits out, grabbing a coat and shoes. "Look I'll be right out. Now go jump out my window before I shove you out."

"Aw," Nate grins, "We love you too Luke!"

He shoves her towards the window the window and makes for the door, not checking to see if he's succeeded in pushing her out or not.

He kind of hopes he did.

* * *

The forest backs the town, on a small hill that rises up and then drops away to a river. The clearing is somewhere along the drop, and when it's quiet in the summer you can hear the river running along the valley, peacefully trickling along its way. At the moment it runs full with rain water and melted ice, and it roars as it carves its way through the landscape.

The clearing is the usual location for pack meetings, and the trees around, huge old pines, are covered with scratching from many werewolf claws over the years. The place has long been written off as a cult camp, and so they get their peace, their sanctuary.

A huge bonfire is set up offset towards one side of the clearing. Around the rest logs are positioned to sit on, with blankets spread with food and drink. Luke spots an old man wrapped up in his cardigan, a scarf around his neck, slowly leafing through pages of his book. His eyes catch the light of the bonfire, flaring them gold.

Well… that would explain why he didn't need reading glasses.

Mothers congregate on the blankets, with small children making big gestures at each other, smiles plastered across their faces. Nearby some more teenagers with low trousers and hoodies that fall off their shoulders are being told off for smoking, the cigarettes being thrown on the bonfire.

Luke hesitates as he approaches the clearing, but Nate catches his arm and drags him forwards. He sees her father eye him warily, and he ducks his head in respect to his alpha.

The pack is old. The alpha rules by blood and respect and sometimes even a little fear. For most of them, it runs in the family lines, and that's where Luke is different.

He's a bitten. He's an outsider.

He's the stupid kid who got himself mauled by a crazy alpha and now has to push on through his life as a werewolf.

"Oh no," Nate sighs besides him, "Disaster in the making at three o'clock."

Luke follows her gaze. He sees Jethro almost immediately. The lanky dark haired brunette has hair so dark it almost looks black and brown eyes he is currently blinking in a manner he probably thinks is romantic at a long legged gorgeous dark skinned girl who is clearly way out of Jethro's league.

It doesn't stop him trying, and Luke pauses with a grin to admire his friend's valiant efforts at wooing her, while the girl turns away, disinterested, pulling a face at where her boyfriend lounges against a tree with a beer bottle in his hand.

"Who the fuck is this guy?" Luke sees her mouth, and moments later a fake smile is plastered on her face as Jethro shifts around into her field of vision.

"Gotta' save him I guess," Nate casts him a glance, probably feeling like she's having a one sided conversation with herself, but Luke isn't quite there with her. Not tonight.

Not after what he just did.

The three of them move towards Jethro, and Luke sees relief in the girl's eyes as she spots them approaching, and she slips away with an excuse, patting Jethro on the back almost patronisingly.

Jethro gazes lovingly after her, and Luke feels the suspicious gazes from her boyfriend falling on both him and Jethro.

He's never been the favourite, a bitten werewolf in a pack of purebloods, but even then he's different from them, and they know it.

The alpha knows it to, which might explain why Luke keeps managing to piss him off. He tries not to, he swears, but nobody seems to believe him.

"Come on moron," Nate grabs Jethro's ear, twisting it, and he winces in mock pain.

"What are you doing… Nate… Nate!" he squeaks.

She lets go, perfectly innocent, "Someone's got to save you from yourself," she shrugs.

"But did you see her?" he articulates every syllable. "That was some hot piece of…" he yelps when Nate hits him. "Stop it! Oww…"

"Maybe you should try writing her poetry," Lexi shrugs.

He points a finger at her triumphantly, "That's a great idea! Brilliant! I… I can't poetry…" he shakes his head in disbelief.

"Should have paid more attention in English." Luke suggests, smirking.

"Psh," Jethro waves one hand dismissively. "Waste of time. I…" his gaze focusses suddenly, sharply on Luke, "Luke!" he exclaims, joyful. "You came!"

"Yeah," Luke offers up a weak smile, "Nate and Lexi dragged me here."

"What the hell dude! You weren't answering your phone! Your mum said you were out!"

He just shrugs, and he can feel Nate's frustration next to him. "Yeah, whatever," she shrugs at Jethro, "Good luck getting him to talk. Come on Lex. Let's go and see if Mum or Dad need help."

"But I want to…"

"Now."

Lexi trails obediently after her sister.

Luke examines the crushed grass under his shoes, trampled by many feet of those gathered in the clearing.

Jethro eyes him curiously, and in turn Luke is aware of others, staring openly at him and Jethro.

His friend is out of place here, even more so than he is.

Jethro's not a wolf.

Not that it's unusual, because the girl that he'd been chatting up earlier wasn't a wolf either, even if her boyfriend was. The old man sitting in the corner is a wolf, but out of his two children who are somewhere in this clearing only one of them is a wolf.

Jethro isn't a wolf. But he's something.

As if to show this his green eyes flash as he tilts his head considering at Luke. "You okay?" he asks.

There is a slightly circle around them where nobody dares venture. After all… no one really wants to interact with Luke the freak and Jethro the anomaly. Luke's always been different, and he's long learned to accept that he's in the wrong body, but Jethro, popular good looking, smart Jethro is still getting used to animosity from the weres. Lex and Nate trust him, but not even the weakest beta trusts the word of the alpha's twelve year old daughter or his rebellious teenage heir.

"I'm great," Luke lies with a smile.

Jethro is staring at him, with that look in his eyes which tips Luke off that he's trying his mind reading trick.

Luke's thoughts drift back to the dark crossroads almost unwillingly, and his claws extend, digging into his thigh. The flash of pain distracts him, and he blinks, staring back at Jethro who is still silently trying to assess him.

He wishes that he knew the hell Jethro was, but considering even Jethro himself doesn't, courtesy of foster parents it's a losing battle, but for now this will work just fine.

"Stop that!" Jethro grabs his hand, pulling it away from where his claws had buried into his thigh. "What the hell are you trying so badly to hide? It's got you all turned sideways man!"

"Stop that shit," Luke shoves him away, but like a wounded puppy Jethro moves back, "Stop it!" he growls, snapping slightly. His claws dig into his thighs once more and Jethro hisses, annoyed. It's hard enough for him to read werewolves as it is, due to their animal instincts and the call of the animal within them, but with Luke distracted it's going to be virtually impossible for him to get a reading on anything.

"Dude, you know we're totally here for you," he gestures, sounding totally heartfelt and Luke knows he means it. Jethro never says stuff like this if he doesn't mean it.

"I'm fine," he snaps, "No seriously… I don't need anything. I… I've found someone who can help."

He's not even lying.

"You always do this!" Jethro throws his hands up in disbelief, "You lock people out! How the hell am I mean to help if I don't know what goes on in that weird little brain of yours! You've gotta' stop running away, let people…" and then he stops, and his gaze goes distant.

Luke takes a moment to realise that this mile-long stare has come out of nowhere. His friend shivers, and green veins run up Jethro's neck, raising the skin slightly as they travel up his flushed skin and creeping along to his eyes where they disappear. It's been a while since this has happened, but it's not unusual for Jethro, the unknown supernatural monster.

"Dude are you okay?" he asks, because usually Jethro will snap out of it by now. If anything his gaze grows more distant, out of focus and Luke waves one hand in front of his friend's face, startled when there is no reaction. "Jethro!" he growls.

Jethro is shivering now, but it's not cold out, so close to the bonfire and in the mingling of bodies. His pupils are dilated and Luke leans closer. "Are you… are you scared?" Luke frowns. Jethro starts, focussing of Luke and blinking, shaking his head like a wet dog.

"It feels like someone just walked over my damn grave," Jethro muttered, exchanging a puzzled, but wary glance at Luke. "You…" he stops, and then starts again, "What did you do? Luke what did you do?"

Luke steps back, shaking his head and spotting Nate and Lexi walking back over to them, makes as if to move towards him. Jethro grabs his upper arm, stopping him, but Luke keeps his gaze straight forwards at where the girls are smiling and laughing.

That's when the bonfire goes out. It flares suddenly, and then dies in a huge whoosh that billows out hot air at them, and all conversation and activities stop as several dozen pairs of glowing eyes snap to the smoking pile of timber. It's like a blown candle, dying suddenly and expectantly and Luke watches the alpha step with a confused frown towards where smoke curls around the wood pile.

It twists through the air, curling and obscuring the bonfire. It hangs thick and heavy in the air, and Luke feels it catching in his throat. Next to him Jethro drops his arm like it's a burning brand, stepping back, nostrils flaring.

The clearing is dim with the night and smoke, and even Luke's wolf eyes can't pierce the choking veil. Their voices are confused, a dim hush of whispers as a breeze rustles the trees, and a shape moves into view.

Luke's skin crawls when he sees her, and he knows she isn't human. She is beautiful, a woman with pale skin, like alabaster, carved out of marble.

The werewolves edge closer, warily forming a circle around the still warm bonfire. The woman's feet are bare, and her dress is flowing and black that mingles with the smoke, spinning around until it's hard to tell where the smoke begins and ends, blanketing her pale skin like a shroud.

Everything about her is beautiful. And everything about her is wrong. She cuts a sharp figure, from the cut of her dress to the crimson, painted smile on her lips. There's a wail from one of the young children, and the mother hushes her child, gold eyes flashing and teeth bared into a snarl.

And her eyes…

Dear God her eyes…

Her eyes are pitch black, hollow and empty and like a void full of darkness and mirth.

"Who are you?!" the alpha snarls, stepping forwards, and he's fully wolf, eyes red and fangs bared. "You're not welcome here…" his voice drops. "Leave now."

"Who… who _am_ I?" she laughs. Her voice is like ice, or the driving snow, but soft and dangerous, like poison drips off her every word. Her lips curl into a smile, but it's not nice or pretty. For a moment she flutters her eye lashes, brushing an invisible speck of dust of the back of one hand, and as her gaze lowers, eye half-lidded, between one blink and another her eyes are normal, a soft gentle hazel.

It's dangerous, and behind his Luke is aware of Jethro shuddering, muttering and gnashing his teeth together.

"It's wrong…" Luke can hear his friend whispers, "She's wrong, she's dark, sounds like darkness, utter blackness, no hope, no light, wrong, dark…" he keeps going, over and over and over again, like an endless loop, barely pausing for breath.

"I am Legion," the woman tells the alpha mocking, "For we are many."

With a snarl the alpha steps forwards, but she is gone, smoke drifting past where she was. He spins around eyes wide.

The scent of sulphur hits Luke first, and then she steps out of nothing in front of him. Her form flickers slightly like a bad projection before solidifying right in front of him.

Luke freezes, all his movements ceasing. Nate stumbles away from him, towards the edge of the clearing, shoving Lexi and a shivering Jethro behind her. Her tiny form isn't much protection, even if her eyes do flash gold. Where Jethro mutters his own eyes are dancing from his normal brown to a burning green and back again, like a laser show. He doesn't even appear to be aware of where he is anymore.

Luke starts when she moves for him, reaching out and grabbing his chin, suddenly unable to move away as she steps forwards.

The rest of the pack snarl, because even if Luke's the freak, he's still one of their own, their pack, but their snarls turn to yelps of surprise when they can't move. Their legs must feel like his, locked up and stuck in glue.

She leans in close, and he can smell her breath across his face, feel its warmth, but it's cloying and stinks of rotten egg.

Her hands dig into his chin, tilting his head to one side as she considers him, her tongue clicking. "Have you changed you mind, little puppy?" her voice is bordering on sultry, despite the mocking nickname, yet it feels like shattered glass across his skin. "It's not too late to change your mind," she adds, but the corner of her lips curl.

The woman's heart beat doesn't change, but Luke knows she is lying. It's too late.

Far, far too late.

"Who are you?!" Nate screams, over from where she can't move, along with the rest of the pack.

The woman laughs, and it sounds like grating ice. She drops Luke's chin, flicking her wrist at Nate and the girl drops to her knees, still speaking but no words come out.

"It's been a while," she says, turning away from Luke, "A long, long time since I've been topside, but now I am..?" shadows dance across her eyes, "Well… a girl has her hobbies!"

"What?" Luke snarls, and he feels his nails morph into claws, "You promised! You can't just… threaten me, and then leave without holding up your end!" he takes an angry step after her and almost immediately finds that he made a mistake when a hand closes around his throat.

He coughs, clawing at her hand, and blinking, and then suddenly they're in the centre of the fire and heat, and her eyes are black again, but with the fire reflected in them her gaze looks as if it is burning with hell fire.

"Insolent wretch," she sneers, lips curling into an ugly scowl. "Watch your tone and be grateful, that I took the time to answer your pitiful plea." Her head tilts to one side, eyes normal once more, "After all… not even a lowlife crossroads demon wanted to deal with the likes of you. Just be thankful…" and she's got his pinned with one hand, and now the other traces his collar bone with one nail. She looks up at him from under her lashes, the sneer dropping into a gentle smile. "Just be thankful that I see the benefits. Long term."

He kicks out at her, and even though it hits she doesn't move, a rock holding him. He feels the heat burning around him, and not for the first time he wishes he could burn, but he knows that he'd just heal too fast…

(He knows it's not really alight, and it's all in his mind, in the burnt smell and her brimstone eyes but he feels it all the same…)

Because now he knows he will burn for all eternity and he will never heal… it will be his penance.

"Stop acting like a child," she hisses, "You should learn your place mutt."

His feet find purchase on the ground and it's just as well, because her grip around his neck relaxes for an instant, slipping instead to his collar and her long fingers tighten, dragging him forwards.

"After all." She whispers, "Every deal needs to be sealed with a kiss." And he snarls, but it's useless, futile as she pressed her lips to his.

She tastes like sulphur and dead rotting meat and he wants to be sick, to draw back, but she doesn't let him. His hands press against her and eventually she relents, stepping away from him with a leer, hand uncoiling from his collar and he flails, balance gone and he drops to the ground like a doll, heaving for breath.

The demon turns away, brushing her hands together as if she had touched something disgusting. She rolls her neck, feeling the pulse of a living body for the first time in centuries and a grin found its way onto her face.

So many new toys to play with, she mused, examining the snarling pack.

This was going to be so, much, fun.

With a snarl the wolves snap off her power as it weakens, but she doesn't worry. She lets them throw themselves at her eyes flicking to one side and the first hapless beta with raging blue eyes is tossed aside with a howl.

The next one follows, and then another snarling yellow-eyed beta, and she grins as his body flies through the thick pine branches of the forest. His snarling ends in a sharp yelp and he hangs suspended onto the broken branch, a wooden stake piercing his heart. Blood pours from his throat, and she wonders whether he'll yet claw his way back from that.

"Werewolves are surprisingly, almost annoyingly resilient," she steps lightly off the bonfire, right hand clenching into a fist. A beta who had made an abortive move towards her, claws and fangs visible drops, choking and clutching his throat, sucking at the air like a drowning man, but finding none. He claws at his throat, his own nails tearing through the flesh, mouth opening and closing like a beached fish gasping for breath.

She tosses two more back with barely a thought, relaxing slightly as her eyes slide back to black. Around the edge of the clearing a few try to flee, but they encounter smooth walls, like an invisible force field, trapping them here.

She doesn't want to waste her toys.

A wolf makes a swipe at her ribs, but the beta female's hand passes through the body like water, and smoke shimmers as if the demon isn't even there. The werewolf freezes, alarmed, and the demon shoves her gently aside, her fingers trailing for too long on the open neck.

The girl doubles over, vomiting, retching and crying as her insides try to claw their way up her throat. Behind her another person, this time not a wolf, just an ordinary human drops as well, screaming and thrashing but no sound emerges.

"I can suffocate you, choke you, stab you and yet you still come crawling back, tails between your legs," the demon sounds almost wonder struck as her left hand curls up. "It's brilliant," she breathes, looking around. Her fingers stretch, and then squeeze into a fist. As she does a nearby wolf howls, the moon above him whole and full as cuts mangle his body, healing almost instantly before more take their place.

He falls to his knees, as if in a twisted mockery of worship and again and again his arteries cry blood, like a hundred claws or knives stabbing into him. His hand clench into fists, not even noticing his own claws curling around into his palms.

"Didn't they teach you anything?" she asks, mockingly as she crouches down next to the werewolf. Taking advantage of her turned back an older wolf lunges for her spine, but before he gets within a metre of her he doubles over, screaming. Fire eats its way out of his belly, and flares up, and his skin wrinkles and blackens.

From the inside out the fire consumes him, orange burning inside him as the outside chars and burns, growing darker and darker and crumbling. His fingers fall from their joints and his eyes which had been squeezed shut fly open, but they are hollow. The blood that leaks from them like tears dries instantly, evaporating into a red mist as his body collapses into smouldering hot ashes.

The demon glances casually over her shoulder, and then shrugs, turning back to the bloodied wolf in front of her. "Tonight… well… some call it a hunter's moon." One finger trails seductively down his chest towards his groin. "And others…" her hand stops, and then moves upwards before she shoves it forwards, digging in under his chest bone, and he coughs, blood dribbling out of his mouth and bubbling down his chin. "Others call it a blood moon," and with a crack she pulls back, ripping out his still beating heart. His body falls away and she holds it in front of her, considering. With her other hand she dabs at it, licking the finger. "Hm," she considers it, "Tastes like dog." And then stands, tossing the heart aside.

She turns around, finding herself face to face with the alpha. Behind her smoke still drifts down from the bonfire where her new pet's still form lies slumped. Nate is still standing defensively in front of Lexi and Jethro, the latter still shuddering and mumbling, not really there.

The alpha isn't as young as he used to be, but he's just as powerful, and his eyes flash threateningly as he takes his stand in front of his daughters. "You monster!" the alpha snarls, his eyes red. Nate is silently sobbing, and behind her Lexi whimpers. Other wolves circle her, teeth bared in fear and anger. Around them the humans scream, scrabbling at the invisible dome around the clearing, and a child wails in despair.

She loves that, the scent of fear in the air. For a moment she revels in it, even as she smiles charmingly at the alpha.

"You going to begrudge a girl some down time?" she asks, pursing her lips. "And here I was having so much fun!" she shakes her head in disappointment.

Luke wakes behinds her on the still warm bonfire with a dry sob. He sits up, hands scrambling through the ashes and he tries to move.

He stands, his hands pressed against the air. It feels like glass, thick and he can't pass beyond it. His gaze falls beyond to the dead bodies, to the demon, to the terrified masses in the clearing and the woman who holds them trapped, like toys for her pleasure to be used and then thrown away.

"You monster!" Nate screams, and Luke tries to breathe, tries to hold into rising panic as the woman paces towards her friend.

With a snarl the alpha leaps forwards and the woman reaches out, and the wolf freezes, hanging in mid-air as if caught in an invisible web.

"Dad!" Nate shoves Lexi towards the edge of the trees, towards a still babbling Jethro. She only makes it a few steps forwards before the woman's eyes turn to her, and the black has seeped out leaving an almost normal brown, but it's equally cruel, if not worse because she could be a normal human, if not for the blood on her hands and the brimstone clinging to her soul.

"Going to be the hero were you?" the demon says, "I don't think so sweetheart." And she steps sharply towards where her dad is still suspended in the air, hand curling until her fingers are almost like claws.

She digs them in, and then rips back. She doesn't pull out the heart this time, she just reaches in again and tears the skin, and the alpha's red eyes roll up as the telekinetic hold on him drops, and his body, a bloody mess, drops broken to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut.

"No!" Nate screams, and Luke is sobbing, heaving breaths, his head shaking because he hadn't intended for this… he hadn't wanted for Nate to be stuck there, forced to watch her dad die right in front of her.

The demon turns to the next wolf, ripping the snarling jaws from the head. Blood stains her skin, the pure snow white smeared bloody with the thick viscous liquid that dries quickly, caking into a brown colour that looks almost like rust.

"Run!" Luke calls, "Please… just run… Nate run!"

The demon looks with sick pity at where her little toy is trapped. "You hear that?" she turns to Nate, pacing forwards, picking her way over the body on the ground as if it's a red carpet rolled out just for her. "He wants you to run. Little mutt wants his bitch to run away with her tail between her legs."

She laughs, stopping in front of where Nate stands frozen, and her long pianist fingers reach out, trailing through Nate's hair as if brushing aside the strands.

Then the grip grows cruel, twisting and pulling and digging in until Nate cries out in pain. "Where you gonna' run to?" the demon whispers in one ear, forcing Nate's head to turn, surveying the wreckage, the still trapped wolves and the already dead and dying.

With a snarl, Nate's mother darts towards them from the side, towards her daughter and the demon. The woman drops Nate to the side turning to snap the werewolf's neck mid-leap, the body being thrown aside out of the way without a thought.

Nate falls in the dirt, and there is something wet beneath her. She pushes herself up, spotting her hands in the glow of the moon, and they are red and sticky. She sucks in a breath, looking away, but then all she can see is the demon, smiling sickly sweet as she licks away a trail of blood along a young boy's neck. He can't be older than five, and he stares up at her with wide eyes, not fully understanding everything, but at the same time having the horrible knowledge that something was really, really wrong.

"So pretty," she whispers to the boy, tongue trailing along his ear.

He flinches away, whimpering like a puppy, "I want my mummy," he tries to push her away but her grip tightens, and her soft gaze grows malicious and the one hand thumbing the boy's cheek digs in, sinking in under the eyes and pushing down.

Nate gasps, shoving herself backwards along the grass, her hands bloody, and blood leaking from the child's eyes as the demon rips her thumbs into the sockets, ignoring his wailing sob and continuing to dig in and dig in. Then with a triumphant laugh she rips her hands out, tearing out the eyes with unnatural strength. The child's wail cuts off.

For a moment she sees the child standing there, ugly red holes where his eyes should be, and she screams.

Behind her Jethro lurches and snaps out of his daze with a start. Next to him Lexi slips aside, curled up into a ball and trying not to listen to the cries. Now she starts as Jethro moves away from her, her eyes tightly closed and hands over her ears as if it might block out the screams.

"Leave her alone!" Jethro staggers towards where Nate thrashes in the ground, trying to get the blood off her hands. It sticks to her skin, hot and heavy and it stinks. It's like rust and copper but even that can't hide the fact it is blood, and her hands are covered in blood… She wipes it with her right hand, but that only succeeds in smearing more all over her.

She tries to breath but all she can taste is blood. Footsteps vibrate through the earth as Jethro stops in front of her, shoulders quaking as the demon turns towards him, head cocked almost disinterested at his appearance.

"What… who are you!?" he shouts, voice weak and horribly human, "Why are you doing this?"

The demon sighs, stepping almost regretfully forwards. "Oh sweetie. Like a poor little boy like you could even begin to understand..."

"Try me," and Jethro steps forwards, and in reaction the demon waves a hand, as if swatting him aside. The power catches Jethro like a giant bat, flinging him sideways towards the edge of the clearing. He hits a tree trunk hard, head snapping to one side and he crumples, eyes closed.

Nate feels like her world has stopped and her sister scrambles over to Jethro, desperately trying to not look at the clearing. Lexi crouches besides Jethro, reassured by the rise and fall of his chest and she casts a hopeless glance at her sister who, as if renewed by that, snaps her head around to the demon.

"Well?" Nate snarls, eyes golden, but with a blink they're almost orange, as if she doesn't know yet if she's an alpha or not. "Going to kill us too?" and she's brave than she has any right to be. "Finish the job!" she cries out, spreading out her blood-stained hands where she kneels before the demon.

The woman laughs, "I would, sweetie, but a deal's a deal." The demon turns away, dress fluttering in the breeze. Nate scrambles upwards, ignoring the next strangled howl as another snarling wolf dies.

She makes her way towards the tree under which Lexi sits beside Jethro, dabbing at the cut on his forehead with hesitation, not sure what to do. Unsteadily Nate drops down beside her sister, and she gathers the younger girl to her, until she can feel Lexi's reassuring heartbeat next to her own.

They try not to listen to the howls as the remaining members of the pack die. Even the old wolves, the powerful ones, they're overpowered so easily it's almost pitiful.

She rips through them with a grin and a laugh and blackness in her eyes. Her smile is sickly sweet, and yet whatever façade she had maintained however briefly was gone, lost in a blood crazed whirlwind of fury.

"It's been too long," she chuckles as if confiding in her victims, hand tightening around one teenager's neck until she can rip the throat out with one clean pull. "I mean… Hell is nice and all… but this... The best torturers don't get their hands dirty," she flicks a lump of flesh from her fingers carelessly. "But I think I've kind of missed this. The feel of blood on my skin. The screams." She leans down to a crying girl, the same one Jethro had been chatting up earlier, "The crack of their bones under my hands…" and blood stained fingers grip and grip and grip and even though Luke closes his eyes, he can still hear the snap.

Everyone dies. She doesn't spare the children, or the adults, or even the non-werewolves who cower in fear. Some run, and she reaches out and drags them back with invisible fingers, and they claw at the dirt leaving furrows in the soil and broken nails before she deposits them before her and snaps their ribs one by one, smiling each time they scream or beg.

The foolish spit insults at her, and they cry out as their skin dissolves from their flesh, leaving behind muscles and organs all exposed to the open air and she takes her time before ripping one out, beginning a dissection on the still living, still screaming mother.

Her eyes are Hell pit black, and she wonders, as she rips apart a rip cavity, whether this was why Alistair and his dark little apprentice had loved to torture so much. There was a certain joy to watching them all be reduced to this.

Where the sisters crouched, Nate pulls Lexi close to her, her sister's head in her chest. Lexi was sobbing, but the tears no longer come to Nate over the shock and horror.

Jethro suddenly sits straight upright. She flinches back, standing and he smells like blood (everything smells like blood… it's never going to go away…) but he smells like fire and bronze and sand overlaid over the metallic tang. Somewhere a child dies with a scream and Nate pulls back, away from Jethro and his glowing green eyes, pupil, sclera and iris all a bright, almost iridescent green. Under his skin green veins run, sparking like electricity along his neck and arms and face.

"Jethro?" she whispers, not recognising her friend. He doesn't look at her, just stands mechanically upright like a sleepwalker.

He stares towards the far end of the clearing, focussing on the demon as if he can kill her with his eyes alone. He looks like a predator, as he begins moving towards her, determined and his gaze levelled on where the woman is revelling in the bloodshed and gore.

Nate doesn't recognise the determination in her friend. She doesn't recognise the green that dances beneath his skin or from his eyes. It's like someone has flicked a switch and he's sprung to life, wired and ready and with only one thing in mind.

The demon is going to pay.

The woman has paused, looking around smirking in triumph at the slaughtered pack, blood mixing with ashes in the soil. Then she looks to the full moon, hanging in the sky. "Oh it's good to be back," she whispers, and a snarl echoes through the clearing.

She glances over her shoulder, eyes widening at where Jethro is stalking towards her, his eyes glowing green and his teeth bared, normal and human if not for the green veins creeping up his neck.

"Well, well," she steps back, "What do we have here…?"

His gaze snaps to her and he launches himself at her, form beginning to blur and the demon's eyes flash black in startled surprise, clearly slightly taken aback, maybe even frightened. She vanishes, and then reappears next to where Luke is sobbing on the dead pyre, trembling with anguish.

"It was your deal kiddo," she scoops him up, and he flinches from the feeling of blood on his skin. "Time to go."

She glanced up once as Jethro leaps towards her, "Thanks for the fun!" she calls, vanishing.

Jethro freezes, first from the sudden change in direction, and then from her sudden teleportation. He flails for a moment panicked, and his eyes are full out glowing now, Nate notices. She grabs Lexi, who shudders close to her, breaking into a run not towards where Jethro now stands, but towards the place he is going to be, acting on instincts that she didn't know she possessed. Sure enough Jethro readjusts his course for the bonfire, limbs sleek and smooth and dangerous.

Nate thinks she should be running in the opposite direction.

The demon is gone, and Jethro's gaze pierces through the place she had last stood, as if seeing through space to where she now was. He is glowing now, like a lightbulb, and stalking like a man possessed towards where Luke last stood, the demon too, and Nate is full out running with Lexi to get there in time.

His steps are smooth and measured and she skids, almost tripping over a dead body. She chokes down bile and throws herself the last few steps as Jethro stops, green light coating his figure like a cloak. With one hand she grabs the back of his jacket, and the other still grips onto Lexi's cold fingers. For a moment her grip slides, slick with blood, but she tightens her hold, just as Jethro's image lurches, flickers, and then full out vanishes in a flash of light.

It wraps around her like cling film, choking and bright and hot and then she can't breathe and the world is swept out from under her, but she keeps a hold of her sister and her friend, and prays.

_Someone help._

_Please._

In their wake the massacred pack lies, bodies mangled and torn with blood staining the ground and the dead bonfire still smouldering, smoke curling in the air.

A blood moon hangs in the air.


	2. Timeless

_Sorry if the middle section is a bit confusing. It has been changed already, but it might still be a bit disjointed. Either way, here is the start of the TW side of things._

* * *

**C****HAPTER 2 - TIMELESS**

The clock ticks slowly, and as the second hand passes the large twelve, the minute hand jerks slightly. The sharp, black numbers are bold against the creamy white, and the flare from the hospital lights makes the number three vanish into a sharp glow.

"I swear we'll be fine…"

Melissa McCall tears her gaze from the slowly ticking clock face, ducking her head so she can hiss sharply into the phone presses to her ear. "It's not that I don't trust you," she begins, tone serious, "And you know I'm a hand off parent, but the thought of you two boys out in the woods where lately there has been everything from killer lizards to evil English teachers. I don't like the thought of you two out there."

On the other end of the line there is a sigh and Scott shifts the phone in his hand, "Mom, I'm an alpha now…"

"You two might be supernatural teenagers but while you still live in my house young man…" she threatens, leaving Scott hanging, "I expect your homework done."

Her son gives a huff of amusement, "It's done. I swear, nothing is going to go wrong this time. And I've got my grades up already, I can keep them there."

Melissa hums sceptically, "So I expect no late nights sneaking off to visit girls." She continues.

Scott's embarrassed now, and she wonders if Isaac is around, listening in, "I don't have a girlfriend," he almost whines at her, and for a moment she thinks about how much like an embarrassed puppy her sounds.

She wants to pry, she's curious about how Scott's finally stepped away from Allison (and Isaac had stepped in just as easily) but she wouldn't do that to her son. So she changes the subject, "You're okay, right? After the alpha pack…?" she remembers what they had gone through in that root cellar, the storm, and she remembers what the three had to sacrifice to get there in time.

There's a pause. "Everything's good." And he actually sounds calm, "I think everything is going to be great." And she can hear the smile in his words.

"Good," she says, her breath hitching, "Leave dinner in the fridge," she tells him, "I'll eat it when my shift ends in…" another glance at the clock. "Three hours. You boys have fun. Take…"

"Care, yeah, I know."

She smiles despite herself and the doors open, heavy footsteps approaching her desk. "I've got to go," she tells him.

"Bye," Scott can't seem to hang up fast enough, and she hears him already moving when the call cuts. She slides her phone into a pocket, looking up over the desk at the people who have just arrived.

They're teenagers, the same age as her own son with one girl slightly younger. There are two girls with a boy sprawled out between them, his arms draped over their shoulders as they stagger towards her. It's lopsided, the girl on the right with long blonde hair is shorter, younger than the other one.

They look like sisters, the same coloured hair and the same sharp cheekbones. They also have the same look in their eyes as they slow to a halt and she moves to meet them.

The older girl's eyes fall on her in relief, "We need to get our friend some help," she begins, "He… he just collapsed, and I don't know what's wrong. He knocked his head and he… he just collapsed… I thought he'd stopped breathing and I couldn't hear his heartbeat…" her words tumble over each other, an endless babble of panic and worry and stress. Her face is dirty, as if she had fallen over, and her arms look like they've been scrubbed raw, but there is still odd patches of dark brown that Melissa recognises with horror is blood.

"I need someone over here!" she calls, "Doctor Osmodai!" she calls, spotting the doctor in relief. She steps towards the girl, prying her fingers away from where they are tangled in her friend's jacket. She untangles them gently and moves the girl back towards a chair.

The girl stares desperately as the doctor and other nurses tend to the boy. His limbs are limp and lifeless but she can see the faint rise and fall of his chest. It's weak, the girl is right, and on occasions he seems to skip seconds without breathing.

The younger girl makes an abortive movement to follow after him as they wheel him away to the emergency room, and her hand clutches at thin air before she stumbles back.

"Lexi," the older girl mumbles, and the younger one goes to her instinctively, pressing against the sister. The two don't even seem to realise that they're squashed into one chair, curling up around each other and seeming to gain comfort from the close proximity of each other's bodies.

Melissa offers a weak smile to the young assistant offering her a clipboard, and she takes it, fishing a pen from her pocket. "He'll be okay," she reassures the girls first. "The doctor is new here, but I've seen him work. Your friend is in safe hands."

She reaches out, grasping the older girl's arm gently. The girl flinches away, blinking at her, and she knows the youngster isn't really seeing her. "I'm Melissa. I need to know what happened. What's your name?"

The older one is silent for a moment. "My name is Nate." She begins hesitantly, but gaining confidence as she continues. Melissa notes the British accents. "This is my younger sister Lexi. That boy is a friend… Jethro…" She stops suddenly, chest heaving as she sucks in a breath, trembling slightly. The younger girl presses herself closer to her sister.

"We were… camping." The younger one says, staring emphatically at Melissa, "And there was this cliff and Jethro thought it would be cool to try and climb up it."

"Climb down it," Nate corrects, idly, "He was trying to climb to the bottom and he slipped."

"That's right," Lexi keeps talking, "He fell. Of course. And he hits his head on the way down. And then he didn't get up, and so we knew something was wrong. Then we went down after him, which was stupid…"

"I cut my arms on the rock face," Nate interjects again, and Melissa looks at her, "That's where…" she waves one arm slightly, crusting with dried blood. It's wrapped in some fabric so she can't get a clear look at it.

Melissa makes a motion to reach for the girl's other arm, but the younger sister shifts, her body suddenly in the way.

"Where are your parents?" Melissa asks gently.

The older girl chokes but the younger one just smiles, but it's hollow and thin. "We… we're on holiday. From England…" which Melissa had guessed but now she shifts uncomfortably, wondering about where the health care money will come from. "They're down… south somewhere…" the girl frowns, staring over Melissa's shoulder. "And we came up to Beacon Hills for a few days camping. They let us. Obviously." She chews on her lip, staring with wide eyes at Melissa. "Will Jethro be okay?" she asks, "Can you check up on him?"

"Yes," the older girl nods, "Can we see him?" she stands, and from where she is crouched Melissa stands too, stepping away. The younger girl appears almost glued to her sister, pressed against her side and Nate has one arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders.

Melissa glances over her shoulder where the door is closed, beneath one of those generic hospital signs with directions to the various wards. "The doctor is with him now," she turns back to the pair, "But when he's taken a look at Jethro you can go in."

Lexi nods, blonde hair falling in her face but Nate glares. For a moment between one blink and another Melissa thinks she sees the girl's eyes flare an orange gold, but then she blinks and it's gone. She must have imagined it.

"Do you have contact information for your parents?" Melissa asks them. "And somewhere you can stay?"

The short haired blonde gives a sharp, short nod, her knuckles white. For a moment Melissa questions the validity of their story, a camping accident, but she sees their distraught faces and doesn't press. "I want to see him," Nate demands quietly, but with authority.

"I'll go and see how he is, okay?" Melissa pats the girl reassuringly on her shoulder and again she flinches slightly. "Just wait here."

She hurries off to where another nurse is grabbing files and hands the information sheet she filled out to her. She leans close, asking about the new arrival.

Above her the lights flicker, before resuming their usual bright glare. She steps back, turning towards where the two girls had stood, preparing to show them to a bed where they could lie down and she could see to the older sister's supposedly cut arm.

She pauses, examining the waiting room. She glanced around once more, but her initial assessment was correct.

The girls had gone.

Above her the lights flicker with a high pitched mechanical whine, and she is left there frowning

The lights continue to flare and dim.

* * *

The leaves crunch under his feet. Twigs snap and branches whistle past inches from his face. He ducks, eyes taking them all in and avoiding them seconds before one takes out his eyes. A laugh escapes him, feeling the thrill of the chase. The air whistles past him and soil slides under him as he takes a running jump, throwing himself through the air. For a moment he feels the earth fall away from under him, and then he slams down, fingers resting in the soft leaf little for a moment before he takes off again, feet pounding on the ground.

Above him the full moon hangs, fat and heavy in the still light sky. It's still early and they've got all night and a howl escapes him which somehow turns into a whoop of joy.

The air rushes out of him as something hard tackles into him. He tumbles down the bank, rolling in a tangle of limbs and playful growls.

He slows to a halt, shoving the warm body off him. The weight vanishes with a laugh, and then a yelp and Scott lazily glances to his left, to where the bank drops down a metre or so.

"You asshole!" Isaac shouts up at him, and it's guttural, and sounds like he's half wolfed out.

Scott pokes his head over the rise, grinning at his beta. They're not transformed yet, but their eyes are yellow and red respectively. The alpha just shrugs, unable to stop the grin from creeping onto his face. "You started it," he says, feeling childish, but with the moon pregnant above him he has all the reason to be.

Isaac growls at him, low in his throat, and Scott pushes himself up until he is standing. He backs away from the bank and then breaks out into a run, turning away. He doesn't see Isaac leap up over it, but he hears the beta give chase, their footsteps drumming into the forest floor as they race each other.

He can hear his heart beating in his chest, the rhythm steady and reassuring, calm and steady. The blood pounds through his veins and in the back of his mind the wolf howls its joy to be running free with his (admittedly small) pack.

The footsteps behind him increase and he chances a glance over his shoulder. Isaac is gaining on him, and with a silent snarl Scott blurs forwards faster, darting towards a break in the three.

He emerges out of the forest like a bullet, prepared to take the few long strides that will take him across the road and to the other side of the forest.

The concretre under his feet is hard and rough as he skids to a halt, arms flailing slightly to maintain his balance.

Isaac bursts out behind him, and he does the same thing but slower, knocking into Scott and sending them both stumbling forwards.

In his jeep, blocking the road, Stiles grins at them. "Sorry wolves," he shrugs, as if his inconvenient parking simply could not be helped. "Guess I win." He looks so damn smug that Scott wants to strangle him, but then he turns the key and his jeep splutters to life.

The damn vehicle should have died by now, but instead it hums steadily as Stiles switches gears, flooring the gas and with a screeching protest of tyres it starts off down the road.

Scott frowns, and exchanges a startled glance with Isaac. His beta is just grinning at him, eyes still alight. He shrugs. "Guess the race is on."

Scott whirls around, slipping back up onto the bank at the side of the road, Isaac starts of beside him but falls back as they manoeuvre the logs and piles of fallen leaves scattered along the road side. To their left the jeep picks up speed, and Scott increases his pace, full out racing the vehicle.

Normal kids spend their evenings playing video games and watching TV. Normal kids worry about girls and school.

Scott isn't normal. And for the first time he embraces this, as he races his friends down the road.

It's exhilarating, the pulse of the moon and the wolf instincts that howl to run and run and run forever. The missing part feels complete, because even if Stiles isn't a wolf, he's still pack.

He's also still an annoying jerk whose stupid jeep is driving faster than it has any rights to be. Stiles pulls ahead and Scott can hear his friend's whoop of joy, which is cut off suddenly as Stiles startles, the brakes crashing down.

The high pitched whine they make in protest has both Isaac and Scott wincing and slowing. They're travelling so fast that they overshoot where the jeep skids of the tarmac, and they stumble back, dropping back out of the woods to the road.

Looking about Scott frowns. There are no animals, no dead bodies anywhere, and no conceivable reason as to why his friend would brake so suddenly, so sharply. His jeep's tyres are smoking slightly in protest and there are skid marks on the road behind him. Stiles is gripping the wheel tightly with white knuckles and Scott makes his way in front of the car, walking around to the driver's door.

"Stiles?" he asks. "Stiles? Are you okay?"

His friend jumps, gaze flying to Scott and then to where Isaac lingers behind him. Scott takes another step forwards and then almost gets brained when the door slams open, and Stiles is scrambling out of the car, frowning as he walks around, ignoring Scott, heading to the front of the car.

"Did you hit something?" Isaac asks, leaning to one side as if to get a better view of whatever poor hapless animal fell afoul of Stiles' jeep.

Stiles stops in the middle of the road, staring down at the tarmac. "Where did they do?" he asks, glancing between the two wolves. He points down at his feet. "Where did they go?" he asks again.

Scott tilts his head to one side querying. Stiles rounds on him, desperately. Over his best friend's shoulder he sees Isaac shrugs and mouth a question at him.

"What's wrong with him?"

Scott ignores Isaac's unhelpful comment and grabs Stiles by the shoulder, shaking his friend. "Where did what go?" he asks, forcing Stiles to meet his gaze.

The human opens and closes his mouth for a few seconds. Then he glances back at the tarmac. "You… you didn't see anything?" he asks, hesitantly.

"No." Scott replies, "Stiles, what did you see?"

Stiles gestures to the ground, "There were… symbols… in white drawn all over the road." He waves about with his arms, and then begins pacing in a circle, "A big sphere, with lots of little circles and lines in it. Like some sort of Gallifreyan shit."

"Galli-what?" Isaac asks. Scott shrugs.

Stiles waves a hand dismissively. "Satanic shit," he says instead. "Pentagrams and Time Lord writing all mashed together. But now…" he stops, crouching down as if to look at it from a different angle. "There's nothing." He sighs. "I must have… Maybe I'm tired…" he sounds slightly defeated.

"Or maybe," and there are times Scott wishes Isaac would just shut up. "Maybe it's that sacrifice near death thing you went through, and it's still messing with you."

Stiles presses his lips together in a thin line. "I… yeah," he says, weakly. "Forget it. I was just… seeing things." He seems like he doesn't like admitting it.

He heads back to his car and Scott jogs over to the forest edge as his friend's vehicle starts up.

Just out of reach of the tree line beyond their view, in a clearing surrounding a tree trunk, there is a circle of dead life. A bird flies too close, wings flapping happily. When it hits the circle though, marked out by the dried brown grass and wilted flowers, the avian drops dead, heart stopping instantly. It falls on top of a pile of varying other dead life, their corpses rotting, yet strangely without smell.

Around the tree trunk black smoke drifts.

* * *

"Get up!" his mom calls at him. His alarm is shouting at him, and he slams his hand down on it.

He shakes his head, but the sound still rings in his ears, shouting at him. It rings and the world vibrates.

"Scott! School!" his mom calls, but it's in the background, indistinct and vague.

He stands, pushing the covers from him and moving over to the window. The light pooling through a gap in the curtains pulses, and in his ears there is a high pitched ringing.

The whole world tilts. He thinks he must have some sort of fever, or he's really sick (and then he remembers that he doesn't get sick any more.

Is it possible to get wolf moon fever?

Someone calls his name and he turns, looking for them, but finding his room empty in the sharp, clean light of the morning. There's another shout and then a scream and his head snaps around again.

He cautiously brushes open his curtains, but it's like he's opened a door and turned up the volume as the sounds grow in strength. He can hear everything, from his mom banging open cupboards downstairs, the stove heating up with regular clicks.

It's loud, and it's too much. He clenches his eyes closed and drops to his knees, hands over his ears. The television is playing three houses down. Cars race down the road and a bird is singing some repetitive song, over and over and…

There is whispering. Words layered over words and sounding like a babbling brook.

He wants it to shut up. He wants to turn whatever it is in him that has magnified all his senses off.

He's never felt like this before, after a full moon. Maybe it was typical for all alphas…

Someone screams. The whispers rise in volume. It's an indistinguishable murmur of words, roaring over each other in a crescendo. He picks up bits and pieces, all jumbled together. It's like a radio badly out of tune, static crackling in his ears.

He tries to focus on one sound, one noise. Scott finds it in a heartbeat, stuttering out a regular, pounding pulse.

It takes him longer than it should to realise it's his own heart.

A loud click echoes through Scott's head, and he blinks his eyes open, to find Stiles staring at him.

What the hell was Stiles doing at his house so early?

"And coach is crazy!" Stiles tells him, and Scott has no idea what he is talking about. "He must have been dropped on his head one too many times as a baby, because there is no way…" His gaze drifts past his friend, and there is light streaming in through an open door, and reflecting off the bright flint of the locker that Stiles is standing by, pulling out books and stuffing them into his bag, and Scott stares, blinking again.

What the hell?

"Dude are you even listening?"

He ignores Stiles, reaching out and pressing his hands to the cold metal. It's real. It doesn't give way under his skin.

But… he was at his house. He was standing by the window with his senses freaking out.

And now…

He looks around, the usual smell of school assaulting his sense of smell. Cheap cleaner, books, dust and people all mingled together. There is quiet chatter in the corridor, as people hurry between classes without worry.

He looks the other way, where he can see Allison and Lydia in the distance, giggling over something. Further down one of the twins is chatting up Danny, making it assumedly Ethan.

Scott glances down at himself, fully clothed and bag slung over one shoulder. He doesn't remember grabbing it… doesn't remember getting dressed or getting to school.

How did he even get there?

One moment he was at home and the next…

"Hey! Wolfie! You zoning out on me?"

"I…" Scott stutters, "I was at home. In bed. Then I was here."

Stiles arches one eyebrow. "Yeah, class is boring for me too." He replies.

Scott falls silent, glancing at his watch. The digital watch is usually reassuring with its soft glow, but now it's got numbers of eleven and forty-five and he's missing time. It's been eaten, destroyed, and seven went and turned into an eleven without him realising it.

The bell rings, and the sound is jarringly loud. For a moment it rings longer than it should in his ears, and he half expects it to go on and for him to wake up, back at home in bed, but then Stiles shoves his shoulder, directing him towards his next lesson. "Come on," his friend sighs, muttering, "This is what I get for babysitting a werewolf day after the full moon."

Scott trails behind him pinching himself. He's dreaming maybe. Or potentially he's just losing his mind.

It was probably just a wolf thing. He should shrug it off, but there's something about the whole 'I don't know what I did in the last three hours' that rubs him the wrong way. Scott staggers into class and takes a seat at his desk. The new history teacher is writing down notes on the black board, and with a sigh Scott shakes his head, and pulls out his book.

He's already been granted a free pass to two lessons already. He's not going to be so lucky as to miss another.

He doesn't know what happened between that morning and now, and some part of his is completely terrified. Did he wolf out? Did he hurt someone? Or did he just have his mind on other things?

Then there's the part of Scott that seems to recognise the fact that it's wrong, and not normal and holy crap there is no way that's English.

His breath catches as he looks at the first page. He is expecting letters, small and neatly printed, but instead it's been replaced by some sort of strange hieroglyphics that sprawl across the page. He puts his hands on the smooth glossy page, tracing the harsh, jarring lines of an unknown language.

Panic wells within him and he turns the page, finding more of the strange language. He keeps turning, page after page trying valiantly to find a word of English amongst the chaotic symbols that mar every page.

The book slams shut and he looks up, breathing heavily.

"Dude are you… okay?" Stiles is staring at him. The whole class if staring at him and he flinches, standing suddenly.

He glances back down at the book and it's in English. He hesitantly opens it to a page somewhere in the middle.

It's all English. There are no strange symbols, no strange language.

The room is suddenly too small, and he grabs his bag and shoves his chair backwards. It makes a grating squeak and he stammers some sort of apology to the teacher and makes for the door.

"Scott!?" he hears Stiles call, confused, but then he is through the door and out into the corridor. He slings his bag onto his back, pacing down the hallway and away from the class room. His breathing is shallow, weak, and his hands are trembling.

He pauses by a window and drops his back, spinning around and walking a few steps back down the corridor before turning angrily and walking back. He feels better, near the light, able to see the outside from here, the forest in the distance, and the wolf in hi, relaxes.

He paces up and down the corridor, hands running through his hair. The wolf at the back of his mind whines and for a moment he doubles over, hands fisting in his hair and his eyes clenched closed as he tries to stop it from emerging.

He stands, eyes opening and he slows his breathing, listening to his heartbeat. It's stifling in the school, which makes no sense for late winter, but regardless he steps towards a window, unlocking it and opening it, breathing in the fresh air.

He spots her then, at the far end of the car park. He doesn't take much notice, turning away and closing his eyes, suddenly aware of how tired he is from the full moon the previous night.

Then he looks up at on the wall in front of him is a giant symbol, marked out in black spray paint like graffiti. He steps towards it, one hand reaching out towards it. It's a triangle, pointing down. The lines extend and then flick outwards, passing through a large V, like the Roman numeral for five.

He presses his hand to the black line, and the image wavers, and he steps away sharply as the black image blurs, seeping off the walls and weeping. It runs down dripping like tears and blurs into posters and school work that's been pinned to the walls.

There is no symbol there.

Scott whirls around; refusing to face the face he might be losing his mind. Again his eyes fall on the girl lingering on the corner outside. She's unnaturally still, and he frowns, because she was about his age, and should probably be in school.

He steps closer to the window, peering at her, and she glances around nervously, as if sensing his gaze. He takes another step forwards, and beneath his feet a mop bucket tips and he stumbles, grabbing onto it to try and stop it from falling over and spilling everywhere. He looks up, trying to find the girl again, but when his eyes spot the corner where she had been lingering there is no-one there.

"What you looking at?" Lydia asks from behind him.

"I… there was a girl… hanging around outside."

She steps past him, moving daintily over to the window. She tilts her head, looking out and down the street to the car park. "Where?" she asks, glancing back at him, "I don't see anyone."

He steps forwards; navigating the mop bucket some careless janitor had probably left there just to spite a student like him. "She was right there," he points. Again Lydia follows his gaze.

"Scott…" she begins hesitantly. "There… there was nobody there."


	3. Personal Demons

**CHAPTER 3 - PERSONAL DEMONS**

"They call it a hunter's moon. That's supposed to be good, right?"

The man in the passenger seat sighs, his left arm propped against the door, his head resting in it as he watches out of the window with predatory eyes.

Next to him his brother just keeps talking, not catching the sign to stop. "I don't think we're ready for this Dean. We don't have anything to take her on with."

Outside the night is calm, pleasant almost if it wasn't for the chill in the air and the full moon hanging overhead. The black car is barely visible on the dead end road, studded with patches of gravel where some poor fellow had tried to fill in the potholes. Weeds grow in a tangled clump along the side, their greedy fingers wrapping around a rotting, half-collapsed picket fence that trails the roadside. Beyond there is an empty field of green, a dark teal in the darkness.

"This place is in the middle of nowhere," Sam continues, "And I mean… how much do we really trust Crowley? He said that this was the place, because apparently it's where the guy was exorcised, but beyond that…? She could have chosen anywhere!"

Dean's fingers tap out a rhythm on his thigh, and it gradually develops into the chords of a Metallica song.

"Dude are you ignoring me? I knew we should have brought Cas. Even without wings he's still an angel. It's more than we currently have. We don't even know that angel blades work on her."

Dean stops tapping, turning to glare at his younger brother, "Shut up and stop bitching," he snaps irritably. Sam wonders if his brother has slept at all recently. "We're here because Crowley says it's here, and ever since you worked you…" his right hand tries to make a gesture to emphasise his point but it fails and he drops it back down, "Ever since he got humanised he's the best deal we've got."

"And Cas?" Sam challenges, because at least now he's got his brother talking. "Why isn't he here?"

Dean casts his eyes towards the car ceiling, as if maybe looking up towards Heaven.

Except Castiel wasn't there anymore.

"He's got angel trouble," Dean shrugs one shoulder, "What with our new friend Bart and company…"

Sam frowns. "The Simpson?" he asks.

"The angel you douche," Dean straightens in his seat, "Whatshisname Bartholemew."

Sam's eyebrows go up in his head and he considers this, looking sideways at his brother with one of those expressions on his face. This one is silently asking Dean, 'what the hell is your obsession with naming the angels?'

Dean ignores him, leaning forwards and peering over the steering wheel down the road. It ends in a dead path, a gate hanging awkwardly on hinges with a footpath behind. Beyond that a house looms in the darkness, all shadows and dark corners, with a tangle of unrestrained undergrowth wrapped around it in a protective embrace.

Occasionally a gust of wind sends a loose shutter on the upper window flapping open, creaking on rusty hinges. It's your typical ghost house, rusting timbers that groan and threaten to give way at any moment. It's almost clichéd in a way, and neither brother appreciates it, both of them bundles of nerves and tensions waiting for the right moment.

Dean's drumming fingers continue, and the quiet tapping is louder than it has any right to be. Sam makes a move towards the radio, because even the blaring rock would be better than the half heard tune, the rest of it all in his brother's head.

Dean slaps his hand away, "Don't he," complains, and Sam doesn't bother to argue. He knows Dean will just play the 'my car, my rules' card and so he slumps in his seat, stretching out his legs as much as he is able to.

There is silence for a while, and the sound of their breathing is the only thing that they can hear. Sam finds without realising it that he and his brother have matched their breaths until it sounds like there is only one person in the car, their calm, measured breathing overlaying each other almost perfectly.

Sam shivers. There's a chill in the air, but it's dry, the ground cracked at it runs up towards the house. There are three windows downstairs, facing them with sightless eyes, and another two upstairs. There are cracks in the white washed walls, spread out like a spider web.

One of the downstairs windows flare. The far left one.

Both brothers automatically stiffen as the light flickers, and then grows slightly, as if a candle has been lit. Dean automatically reaches for his Colt '45, reassured by the familiar weight and grip.

There is a crack, a loud sound that could be anything from a snapping bone to lightning, but it's too loud, too sharp and it ends far, far too soon. Above the sky is still clear, but the air now hangs heavy as if in wait of something.

Something dark.

Sam and Dean exchange a single glance. No words pass between them because no words are needed. Dean somewhat appreciates having Sam there to watch his back, because even though it's still weak, still broken and crumpled in places, the trust is there. They've had to step away from each other, but there's always going to be that layer that makes the Winchester brothers just _work _together, a well-oiled machine with no room for error.

At least not until the next angel or demon or vampire comes along and shoves a spanner in the works, but Dean will deal with that when it comes to it.

They wordlessly slide out of the car, the doors shutting as quietly as they can, which for Sam isn't quiet enough, and for Dean, he just pats his car as one would a dog, before leaving it to stalk towards the house. They move like predators, sleek and well trained, right up until the point Dean stubs his toe and bites his lip to stop himself from swearing.

There is a stone half hidden in the ground. Dean crouches down, pulling away the tangle of grass and roots from it.

Inscribed into the square shaped rock is a sigil. It looks like a castle, with battlement along the top in a little square. The lines don't meet, and at the bottom of the castle the lines veer outwards, curling around. From these arcs, hang crosses, and circles like some sort of twisted balancing scale.

"What do you want to bet that's going to be our new arrival if we don't do something soon?" Dean whispers in a hushed tone to his brother.

"That's creepy dude. It's like some sort of grave marking to him."

Dean stands, moving towards the gate, "Come on," he gestures at Sam. The pair bypass the gate entirely, instead creeping through a gap in the hedge. They fall silent, and Dean motions to Sam in quick sharp gestures that only Sam appears to understand, as he nods and slips to one side, heading around the back.

Dean paces towards the front door. The window on the far left is lit with soft, orange light from a candle that sits in the window, illuminating the room, but also casting shadows on the contents within. Shadows move about inside and he finds himself holding his breath as he turns the door handle.

The door creaks slightly. Typical. He slides in like a cat, gun angled towards the ground. There is a hallway next to the door, but at some point it was half-way towards being turned into a large open single room. There's only a thin piece of wall that separates him from the room to his left, and it ends in a large archway through to where the candle light flickers. He doesn't pay much attention to the rest of the house, a door leading through to what looks like a kitchen with old, mouldy surfaces and cracked tiles, instead pressing himself towards the wall and edging towards the arch from which the light seeps.

He doesn't make it two steps before a voice drifts through to him from the room on the left. It's rich, and full of amusement and deadly power that sends a tremor down his right arm. "Don't lurk there in the hallway like a stalker, Dean."

Dean doesn't answer. He reaches around, tucking the gun into his belt and then slipping a shining silver blade from his jacket pocket. It's almost circular, and it's hard to tell where the grip ends and the blade begins. On first impression the angelic sword doesn't look sharp, but when it catches the light leaking out of the room there is a fuzzy edge to it, that vanishes into that which human eye can't perceive, and Dean knows from experience that it cuts not just through flesh and bones, but through grace and soul as well.

He weighs it in his hand for a few seconds, before mimicking Cas and sliding it up his sleeve.

Dean turns slowly and steps out into the archway. He thinks in vain that Sam was right, and they are woefully unprepared for this, but then again what exactly could they have attempted to do to improve their chances? They were the Winchesters. Nobody wanted to deal with them, to help them out, not when they played with life and death, heaven and hell as casually as they did.

He swallows down his fear and steps forwards, grip tightening on the angel blade. The room ahead of him is lit with candles, one on the windowsill, and another two on a table against the right wall.

It's some sort of altar, draped with a white cloth and a metallic bowl, probably bronze, with dried green and brown plants resting within. Dean can also see sharp yellow-white which suggests bones, but it's hard to tell because the herbs are smouldering softly and giving the whole room a sickly sweet smell.

The ceiling is a myriad of cracks, with a large gaping section where the plaster is missing. Just beyond that hangs a crystal chandelier, and the faceted surface sends sparkles of light shooting around the room like some sort of disco ball. Below it stands the demon, her red hair cascading loosely around her shoulders and clashing with her black leather jacket.

"Hello Dean," Abaddon smiles, "How nice of you to join us."

Dean notes the 'us' and he looks beyond Abaddon, to where a man is tied up. The youngish guy kneels on the floor, bound and gagged with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes that meet Dean's, wide and scared. He struggles but Dean can see the knots have already rubbed his skin raw, and knows that he's not going anywhere.

The hunter steps towards the man who tries to make a noise, but it's muffled by the gag. There is a tutting sound from the demon, who steps in Dean's path, her head shaking disapprovingly. "Now, now," she tells him, "You can just wait until it's your turn."

Dean stops, standing still as she moves towards him, sleek, languid steps. His heart thuds in his chest as she moves well within his personal space limits, her gaze meeting his. She's beautiful, fierce and deadly, and Dean prays that Sam gets a move on with their plan. "Careful darlin'," he drawls instead, sounding more confident than he is, "You're almost worse than an angel with personal space issues," and he steps back, away from her.

She follows, lips smirking somewhat. "You'd know, wouldn't you?" she asks, "What with that pet angel of yours?"

He doesn't know if she's referring to Castiel or Gadreel, but either way she leans forwards, her body pressed against his. One hand reaches up to cup his cheek, fingers tracing the jawline while the other grips his wrist, and the angel blade that he had barely closed his grip on drops under the tight nails that leave bloody imprints on his skin.

He gives her a weak smirk, "What can I say?" he asked rhetorically, as she circled around behind him, one eye still on the silver sword at his feet. "I had to try."

The sword slides away as if kicked by invisible feet. "It's a shame you're so defiant, Dean." Abaddon seems to like molesting his name, "You'd make a perfect vessel otherwise."

"This ass has so far remained demon _and_ angel free." His voice is tense. "I'd like to keep it that way."

She circles back around in front of him, her one hand trailing across his chest to where they both know his anti-possession tattoo lies. "I don't know," she hums, "Then again it's too be expected really…" she continues circling him, rounding past his left shoulder with slow, measured steps and the floorboards creak underneath her. "Do you know why I'm here?" she asks him.

She vanishes in his blind spot but Dean doesn't flinch. He mentally shouts at Sam to hurry up, but doesn't visibly give anything away, doesn't even glance towards the ceiling where upstairs, he knows Sam is spraying out a devil's trap over this very spot.

_Get a freakin' move on Sammy!_

"Why don't you tell me?" he barters.

"I could," she shrugs one shoulder, emerging back into his field of vision on his right side, "Maybe I don't want to."

"And here you struck me as one of those villains who like to monologue." He sighed.

"A villain, Dean, really?" she laughs at him, her lips a deep red that matches her hair. "Is that what you see me as?"

Her hand traces down his shoulder and he recoils slightly.

"I'm more of a… faithful servant." She says, and then stops. Her hand lingers over just below the crook of his elbow where unseen the mark is branded into his skin. "Well," she hums, stepping away from him, "You've been busy. Meeting new people, reaching for the higher places…" Dean hopes he sees panic in her eyes but it's gone almost immediately, replaced by smug knowing, "Are you going to kill me Dean?"

She leans forwards and he tries to move backwards, but her hand clenches as she leans close, "You know I am," he whispers to her, glaring.

Her perfect lips curl up into an open grin, "Then where's the blade?" She pulls away thankfully, relaxed and at ease now, "What are even doing here?" she spreads out her arms, "If you don't even have it! You can't kill me! Those little angel swords can't hurt me!"

"I don't need the blade to kill you," Dean snarls, hatred churning in his gut.

She considers him for a fraction of a second. Then she smiles, and Dean's hopes drop. She's too confident. "Did you really think you could trick me?" she asks him, and she reaches up towards non-existent stars, as if to pull them down to earth.

There's a crash as the ceiling gives way in the centre of the room, the cracked plaster breaking in a cloud of dust as something crashes down, and Dean lurches instinctively towards the gangly long limbs of his brother. Beyond the poor gagged guy winces, whimpering through his gag as Sam crashes down in front of him.

"Sam!" he shouts, and there is a groan from his younger brother who rolls to the side, before stilling, and even through the dust and broken bits of ceiling Dean knows he is wincing in pain.

Dean's only a few steps away from Sam, when suddenly he can't breathe. There is no oxygen to be found and he chokes on nothing. There are footsteps as Abaddon strolls over, and she flicks her hand.

An invisible force takes a hold of his brother, picking him up and throwing him against the wall. She moves closer to Sam, and Dean wants to get her away, because the last time a demon touched his brother the poor kid ended up high on demon blood, but the red-head merely slips one hand into Sam's jacket and draws out the demon killing knife.

"It was a nice plan," she turns to him, standing. Dean tries to gasp out an insult but he can't even draw in a single breath. He feels his vision blackening as invisible hands clamp down on his windpipe. "Shame it didn't work," she steps past him, as he slips down onto the floor, splinters digging in under his nails.

Black spots his vision but it's intermingled with white and yellow and he's not exactly sure when but at some point he can breathe again, sucking in gasps of air like a dying man which he quite nearly almost was.

He's pinned with his back to the wall on the right side of the room. He looks up, eyes roving around frantically and spotting where Sam is pinned directly opposite him. His brother hangs limply, arms out to either side of him.

It takes longer than it should for his oxygen deprived brain to realise his younger brother is unusually still, and then that he can see Sam's features outlined in moonlight.

The hole through which the ceiling collapsed is a gaping wound above them. Above that the roof tiles are broken, and the rafters snapped to provide direct access to the sky above. Through the two stories of the house, Dean can see moonlight pouring down, the moon almost directly above the gap and shining down onto the floorboards.

"You're so obedient," Abaddon places the metal bowl underneath the chandelier, "Coming when you're called. That's what I like about you Winchesters." She moves towards Dean and he tries to move, to reach a blade, a knife, something.

It's useless, and she has him pinned with all her demonic mojo.

In a stupid, desperate attempt the words of the exorcism roll of his tongue, but then once again his oxygen supplies become non-existent and he stops, choking.

"Don't try it," the demon leans over him. She grabs his wrist, pinning it out to the side. There is a blade glittering in her other hand. With a deft twist she spins it around and buries it into his arm.

Dean's still struggling to breathe so the cry is soundless. Without even waiting for a pause Abaddon materialises another blade and drives it into his other arm. Then suddenly he can breathe. Pain runs through his arms, and he has the vague thought of hoping she hadn't stabbed the mark before she pulls out another knife, ornamental and looking almost blunt.

The hunter is already categorising the pain in a compartment of his mind as he reprioritises. He knows now why Sam isn't moving, why he hangs against the wall so limply, pinned there not just by the demon telekinesis, but by the blades he hadn't noticed before, crucifying him to the fucking wall. Now Dean looks closely he can see Sam is shaking, slight breaths that contrast his own heaving gasps for air now that the hold on his throat has been released again.

Sam is still alive, and he hopes he stays that way, even if Dean doesn't make it out of this.

He doesn't think he can survive it if Sam dies.

He's honestly expecting the silver ornamental knife through his chest, which is why it takes him by surprise when she merely presses it against his arm, where rivulets of blood trace patterns down his arm.

The blade shimmers as the blood drips onto it, and he strains his eyes, barely able to pick out the rust red where Sam's blood already stains the blade. It was unhygienic really, and Dean would have made such a comment if he had his breath back.

"Couldn't have down this without you boys," she directs to the pair.

Sam raises his head weakly, hair hanging in his eyes and curses her. Dean is relieved to hear his brother's voice. Neither knows quite how they got themselves so involved in this ritual as Abaddon paces to the centre of the room, standing under the moonlit hole and beginning an invocation.

It doesn't sound like Latin, and it's too flowing to be Enochian. Neither brother recognises the words, and if both were honest, they were both more worried about each other bleeding out than trying to identify the language. Abaddon had cut what was probably a major artery, probably on purpose knowing her, and Dean can feel each pulse of blood that left him, making him dizzy.

Dean wonders if maybe it's time to retire after this.

There is a rumble of thunder, but the sky remains clear. Abaddon stands in the centre of the room, the crystal chandelier shaking above her. To her left lies Sam, and the younger Winchester vaguely acknowledges that he, the tainted one, lies on the west side of the room where the sun sets while Dean, the righteous one, is on the east side of the room where the sun rises.

To the north the host body struggles, eyes wide and terrified and his whimpers through the gag. The chanting continues, growing in volume. The candles in the room flicker out and then relight themselves, and the earth seems to shake.

With one final word Abaddon brings the knife down on the floor between the brothers. Dean and Sam's eyes meet as the blade buries itself in the floorboards.

It's dead silent.

"So…" Dean speaks, breaking it, heart pounding, "I guess your ritual didn't work?" he grins, happier than he should be from where he is crucified to the wall.

She just smiles at him, far too smugly for Dean to get a fucking break for a change. Instead he is aware of the blood that has dripped down to the floor moving towards the blade. It's like a magnet, attracting the red viscous liquid, and Dean knows that Sam's blood is doing the same.

The older Winchester sees it, muscles tensing and then relaxing to try and avoiding losing any more life force through the knife dug into his lower arm.

He'd lost too much already and Sam must have lost even more. Random and stupid thoughts were flying through his head. Such as: hadn't Abaddon read the Bible? She was meant to crucify him through the hand, wasn't she? It was also kind of ironic how Sam they used to think was the Anti-Christ, and now he was probably going to die like Christ.

It's like with Lilith, Sam opposite his brother realises with horror, as the two veins of liquid run steadily on a crash collision course with each other, the blade in the centre. Dean lets out a hollow laugh around that time, head sagging and the younger Winchester wonders who is worse off in this situation, because for a change they both seem pretty battered.

The blood meets with a crack, and the ground rattles in reply and Dean can feel the burn from Sam's bitch face for jinxing everything. There is a snapping sound as a fissure runs out from where the knife is buried in the floor. It spreads slowly like cracking ice, like something is forcing its way up from underneath. Their blood steams slightly, as the floorboards splinter, snapping like broken bones.

Abaddon steps back laughing. She's triumphant and deadly and jubilant as the house begins shaking. She steps back just as the crystal chandelier falls, with a loud crash. The crystals splinter, hitting the ground and smashing into a million glass droplets like tears.

Dean turns away, his eyes shut to try and protect them from the mist of glass. The moonlight still pouring through the hole and down onto the knife makes them shine in all colours, as they bounce and bounce and then still.

The floorboards groan as they are ripped apart, and Sam sees the first wisp of black smoke materialise. Then there is another crack, and the wood is ripped aside as a smoky body emerges, no features distinct. Horror overcomes him as he witnesses the demon claw its way out of the earth, claw its way out of hell…

Because they'd seen demons before, black smoke and coloured eyes, but never before had Sam seen their true forms, and for a moment under the shroud of smoke the whole image flickers like static. It is for barely a second, but he catches sight of rotting flesh and huge burns marring the skin, and the burnt black skeletal form of what once might have been wings, small and stumped on its back.

Then thankfully the form is gone, back to the indistinct, black smoke, featureless and blurred around the edges. The centre of its form is burning, charred cinders and embers clinging to it in a faint reminder of hellfire. The scent of brimstone permeates the air, and Dean closes his eyes, images of hell and Alistair leaking out from the wall he had barricaded it behind.

The cinder ash form blurs and then flares out in a faint mockery of wings, before with a rush, forming itself into a funnel and swooping towards where the bound man still struggles desperately.

His mouth is still gagged, but the demonic form just forces his head up and shoves its way in his eyes and nose. There's a faint roaring sound as the demonic smoke forces its way in, unceremoniously and violently, brutalising the host before the possession has even begun. Finally the last wisps of black tendrils vanish and the host slumps, body still for a moment.

Then with a heaving gasp the now possessed man startles upright, limbs convulsing and trembling.

His limbs jerk like a marionette puppet, twitching as if in a seizure. The ropes and gag smoulder and then burn away, ash crumpling to the ground as they vanish into dust and ashes.

His eyes slam open and both Dean and Sam, against their better wishes look towards the new arrival. They both flinch back when the eyes open a sickly yellow and Sam can't help it when he chokes out "Azazel."

The man stretches, neck cracking as he clenches his fingers. "Oh this is nice," he murmurs appreciatory, yellow gaze regarding the room and where Abaddon is grinning triumphantly. "Very nice," he repeats, standing and looking down at himself. "How much did this cost?" he chuckles, straightening his shirt and looking at the black-eyed demon.

"I found it cheap at a bar," Abaddon sneers at him.

The demon shrugs, seemingly easy-going. He rolls his shoulders, circling them as if he should have wings or something attached and slightly puzzled that they aren't there. His gaze catches sight of the brothers and he steps forwards. Their gaze follows him, both wary of his presence.

"Well crap," Dean says, meeting Sam's gaze across the room. Sam has a slight frown, and Dean shakes his head in a slight jerk because he knows he killed Azazel, he knows the guy is dead but if so… why is he standing here?

"Why…so…frightened?" the guy takes time picking each word, as if getting used to his voice. "I mean… I've heard about you. Everyone's heard about you. Sam and Dean Winchester."

Dean really wishes the demons would stop molesting their names like that. It makes him feel uncomfortable.

"So these are the famous vessels, huh?" he asks, dragging out the 's' as he paces between them. Sam frowns at him, because this isn't Azazel. It scares him that he knows that, but the demon that had tormented their family was nothing like this.

With a flick of his fingers the knives that are buried in Sam and Dean's arms twist in deeper and both brothers let out cries of pain.

"Handsome fellas'," the demon grins, "Can see why Mike and Lucy were so insistent on them." He steps forwards over the broken glass which crunches under his feet and then spins around suddenly as if remembering something, "Abaddon!" His hands fly out slightly in greeting, "You're looking…" he stops suddenly, leering at the meatsuit.

"Belial." She replies shortly, and from over where Sam is wincing in pain Dean sees his eyes widen. He recognises the name too and he bites his lip, trying to struggle free, not really caring at this point if he rips the muscle trying to get those damn knives out of his arms.

"So is it time? Is it? Is it?" Belial tilts his head conspiringly at Abaddon, grinning like a demented puppy.

"What do you think?" she asks, scornfully, "Do you think I broke you out of the deepest pits of Hell just for the pleasure of your company?"

"I'm hurt," the yellow eyed demon presses his hands over his heart, "Well." He reconsiders, "I would be if I cared." He skips over to her, his eyes flashing a sickening swirl of colours. "Unfortunately I… well…" he glances at Sam and Dean, "I don't think I have soul. Don't think I ever did, really." He flashes a white-toothed grin. "So Polly," he says instead, clapping his hand together and turning to her. "What are you going to do about them?" he asks. He doesn't need a gesture to refer to who is talking about, but he stabs a thumb over his shoulder anyway.

"Leave them," Abaddon steps back, half turning away, "They're no longer useful."

A grin catches the corner of Belial's lips. "Well in that case…" he flings out a hand.

Sam just has enough to think 'well we fucked this up' before he is ripped from the wall, the knives being torn out of the plaster with him. He falls forwards to the floor, landing heavily on one shoulder, jarring it, and Dean lands with a whimper next to him, hitting the floor and rolling onto his back to try and protect his arms.

They have barely a moment to look up at each other, before with a shuddering crack the floorboards break underneath them.

Sam's brain choses that moment to remind him that there isn't a basement below, that there shouldn't be a gap in the earth that should just be able to collapse open, but the sink hole is there and for the second time that night he falls. The floor falls away beneath him in a manner horrible reminisce of falling into the cage. Soil crushes in on him, complete with rocks and bits of brick and glass and he clenches his eyes closed as darkness presses in on him. Somehow a hand finds Dean's jacket and clings onto it, and this time at least, they fall together.

Then the earth swallows him and Dean whole.

Belial watches for a moment as the earth cracks beneath them, opening up to make a pretty little pit just for the brothers. Then he lets the soil and shattered glass and wood crash down on top of them. "Let's see them try and claw their way out from that," he smirks, "And if they don't well… it saves them the trouble of digging a grave." He turns to Abaddon, his eyes glowing yellow and lips curled up in a sick leer. "It's not particularly inventive," he shrugs, "But I've got to say it's appropriate."

"Stop playing around," the Knight sneers at him. "We have work to do."

She spins away and the other demon just shrugs. "Gonna' begrudge me a bit of fun?" he asks. "It's been awhile after all."

Between one step and another, the demons are gone, leaving an empty room with no floor, the ground collapsed into one churned up mess.

Sam and Dean are left, buried in their own graves.

* * *

_March 2013 - Just a reminder this is set post s09e13The Purge and then will sort of run AU along the end of s09._

_Reviews are love. They might get Sam and Dean un-buried (is that a word?) faster._


	4. Yellow

_This seems to focus on one of the original characters but it's actually more about the villains. Under the instructions to make them scary I might have gone a bit overboard and now one of them is just plain insane._

_I'd love to hear people's thoughts about this. At the moment I'm just assuming that people are reading this._

_Next chapter jumps back to Sam and Dean. Then we get back to the Beacon Hills pack. It's usually pretty balanced, the two exchanging chapters._

_Hope you enjoy._

* * *

**CHAPTER 4 - YELLOW**

There isn't a sound when she steps out of nowhere on the rise at the edge of the forest. One minute she isn't there and the next she is, smoke curling around her form, licking around her and blurring the sharp edges of her form. Her left hand is twisted cruelly into the collar of the boy in his grip, and he falls to his knees upon arrival.

She doesn't let go, instead taking a deep breath as if scenting the air.

The second arrivals appear with a crack. It's like a gunshot, tearing apart the air as they stumble into view in a flash of green light. The lanky boy drops to the ground, eyes rolling up in his head and the demon snarls.

The short haired blonde girl looks up, and for a moment alpha red eyes meet black before the demon yanks on the boy in her grip like she was tugging at a dog's leash. Then she is gone.

They arrive in an alley way, dark and dingy with trash and puddles of tainted water spreading across the cracked surface. Beyond there is the hustle of the city, lively and completely unaware of the darkness that just walked into their midst's. She drops the boy immediately as if he is something disgusting. Luke sprawls despondently on the floor, sobbing, his muscles lax as he sinks down. She's thought the term sinking into despair was a metaphor, but the boy… he wallows in it. She smiles, crouching besides him, tasting the scent of self-pity and self-loathing.

If she was in Hell she'd spend days playing on this, whispering nasty thoughts into his head.

I'm gonna kill you eventually you know. You're mine now. I own you.

Do you know what you caused? How many are dead because of you? Are you sure you can still live with yourself after what you did?

But she's not in Hell and she has a schedule to stick to.

That and this boy is a whining brat. He's already thinking all of these things himself and worse.

"Did you kill them?" he whimpers, sounding like a kicked puppy. "I don't… take me back. I've changed my mind I don't… I don't want this…"

Instantly her soft façade drops and she sneers at him, "A deal with the likes of me, sweetie, requires participation on both side." her fingers trace his jawline, before digging in cruelly, "Anyway," she continues, smiling sweetly at him, "Daddy would disapprove if I went against the rules."

He continues to shuddering, whimpering and whining. With a snarl she backhands him, and he falls, sprawling out across the concrete. His gaze stares at his reflection in a grimy puddle, and he forces his eyes closed.

"How sweet," she coos, "Trying to block it out. But I'm sorry, because this…" and she digs her fingernails into his arms until his eyes fly open, and he can see her leaning over him, black eyes and all. "This is real." she whispers in his ear.

He can smell the sulphur in her breath, and it's all he can do to keep his stomach steady. The tight grip relents and she brushes a lock of hair out of his eyes. "Don't worry," she chimes again, looking down at his reflection, "I'll find you a new, nice body. A handsome body… one you can be proud of and feel comfortable in. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

His mouth moves but no words come out.

"I mean, it's been so hard, being the freak all the time," she plays his fears like a musical instrument, "But I can make you better. Fix you. God didn't make you right but my God would have. And so I'll fix you. I'll fix you up aaaalll good." she croons.

His breathing is steadier, and even though his eyes are wary, scared (she loves that look of fear) he doesn't flinch when she pulls him up, wrapping one arm round him.

"Come on sweetie," she murmurs, "We have stuff to do," and she tugs him with her down the alley, her body pressed to his as if in a cruel mockery of her guarding him.

Together the two of them step out into the mass of people on the high street. Together they wind their way through the tired, poor, rich, hungry, gluttonous, huddled masses, slipping in unnoticed.

Nobody looks at them twice.

* * *

It seems almost normal.

"Coffee?" the waitress beams at them. Luke examines the table and the demon just smiles and shakes her head, not even glancing at the poor young girl.

Instead her gaze is on him, her red lips pursed. Luke can't quite remember when but she's found a pair of high heeled boots and a short sleeves jacket that she's slipped on over the black dress.

She passes for human. She passes for normal in a way that Luke never can.

There is nothing normal about this though.

"So," she props an elbow on the table, and rests her chin on her hand, staring at him hungrily like a piece of meat. "I was thinking someone a little older. You're only what...fifteen?"

"Seventeen," he replies, mumbling.

"Speak up, darlin'," she grins, and for a moment a shadow crosses her eyes. She shifts, head lifting to survey the small café. "Look at that one there," she breathes, eying up a man who has wondered over to the counter, "Look at how handsome he is, all well-defined and the hints of a beard. Don't you want to be like that? Go on…" she urges, as Luke finds himself gazing around at the various males in the room. "Pick one," she smiles, but it doesn't reach her dead eyes. "Go on sweetie." she repeats. He hates the mocking names but he doesn't dare protest.

Luke looks around, and he doesn't know. These are other people, people with their own lives, their own families. He thinks about his mother back home and feels guilty. He shouldn't, he deserves this after all. It's owed to him. It was his deal, and this is his choice.

Damn the consequences.

"Aw," she leans forwards as he still continues to hesitate. He hates being so weak. He's not weak, he's not a girl, and he's so, so close to that final leap. "Is the guilt getting to you? Are you fwightened?" she coos at him as if he's a child.

He swallows, looking around. There's a boy lounging outside, brown hair spiked up and ear plugs pounding music in his ears.

"That one? Oh good choice. I bet those dark eyes will look just bea-u-tiful, lit up gold with your little werewolf soul," she bares her teeth in a grin, and he startles, about to protest but she is already standing. She moves to stand next to him and leans over, and he freezes, as she presses her lips to his forehead. "One nice body," she whispers, "Coming riiight up," and she straightens, her sights set predatory on the male.

Luke doesn't know what to do. Numbly he watches as she saunters outside and heads straight for the guy. He takes a moment to examine him. He's about nineteen or so, wide shoulders and one foot propped against the window as he looks down at his phone.

She saunters up to him and the demon's smile cuts like grass. The guy startles, blinking at her as if in a daze. She leans close, perfect red lips next to his bobbing Adam's apple, and whispering something. One hand trails seductively over his chest and the male moves back, plastering himself to the window.

Just as quickly she draws back, and the poor guy follows her, already ensnared.

They vanish to one side and it takes a few seconds for Luke to scramble out of his seat. He walks into the waitress, sending her tray flying and not even bothering to apologise, he darts for the door.

Outside the street is bustling with people. He cranes his head, looking for the dark hair. He takes a whiff of the air, ducking between people as he moves along, following the route she and the guy and gone. Luke breathes in again, but all he can smell is a faint scent of sulphur, vanishing in a breeze, car fumes and the scents of hundreds and thousands of people overlaying it already.

He breaks into a run, shouldering into someone, but he ignores it, looking both ways. She can't have gone and left him like this. He needs her… she made him a deal…

He's beginning to panic, and he pauses mid pavement, spinning around and craning his neck for anything… a glimpse… a scent…

It should scare him how dependent he is on her already.

He stumbles over his own feet, and someone snaps at him to watch it. Cars thunder past, and he tries to stop hyperventilating this, to look at everything logically…

He doesn't even know what city he's in. Screw logic. The demon just left him without a word…

He spins around again and a hand clenches down on his wrist. He tries to pull away, but it tightens, unnaturally strong. Luke glances up, staring at the blonde man who steps closer, leaning in.

The werewolf takes a breath, preparing to cry out. Someone must surely notice he's being harassed by a random stranger...

"Don't scream kid," he leans over Luke, and he is seconds away from doing just that when he taste the scent of brimstone of the man's breath.

"You're a demon," he gasps out.

"Observant," the guy chuckles, and his brown eyes flash, bleeding into a sick coloured yellow. "Don't worry. I'm not gonna' eat you." he jokes, before dragging him forwards, hand clasped tightly around his upper arm. "Might eat her though," his eyes are back to brown as he eyes up a passing child, barely four with soft blonde hair. "Soft and tender."

"Who are you?" Luke doesn't try to struggle.

"Name Belial," he says, head never staying still as he takes in the crowd, eyeing each passing person. "Oo, and she's pretty. Bet she screams. She looks like a screamer, doesn't she?" he gestures to a red-head chatting with friends. "I could make her scream. She probably begs too. Then I'd rip out her tongue and make her beg without a voice. They sing then. Or try to… Or maybe she's feisty. I like 'em feisty. I knew a feisty red-head once..." he considers. Then with a tug he pulls on Luke's arm, and the werewolf follows, obediently like a good little dog being led around on a leash.

"What happened to her?" Luke doesn't know why he asks.

"Still know her. Him. Her." he shrugs, "New meatsuit. Makes it's hard to keep a track of these things…" he leers at Luke, "That's what your issue is, right kiddo?" he grins, teeth bared in a snarl.

They cross the street and traffic screams. Belial doesn't pay it any attention, pace quick and focussed. Then like a distracted squirrel, he glances up again at the crowd and his eyes flash yellow, distracted. "Hey look, wanna be a pretty boy like that?" he nods towards a passing guy. "He's got nice hair. Nice lips too. Bet they'd look great wrapped around my cock. And his eyes. I used to collect eyes you know? Browns and blue and hazel… I always liked the green ones personally…" he pauses, considering something, "Should'a ripped the Michael Sword's eyes out," he reflects on something, "Ah well. I can find him down in Hell easily enough." and his pace increases, and Luke stumbles to keep up, almost tripping over his feet.

"I love people." Belial muses, "Well, actually I love their vices. Can't you smell it? Go on mutt, breath it in." His other hand comes around to paw at Luke's hair like a dog, "Love the scent of sin. All that lust and pride and greed… They all stink of it. They'll burn for it. They'll all burn. It's like…" he pauses to think, and then his train of through changes again, "Dante!" he exclaims, "Ever read Dante? All those levels going up and up and up and up and I fell down every one of 'em!" he seems proud of this. "But people… what I love about them is dragging them down. Each and every one of them think they're so high up on their little perches, but then you reach up and in the end…" he veers sharply to the right across the road, "Everyone falls," he laughs, and there's a maniacal edge to it that terrified Luke.

"Aww," the demon mocks, "Don't be scared little girl." He winces, and yellow bleeds into his eyes like a wolf. "Oh, whoops. Isn't that mean to be boy… I can't tell..." His stare makes Luke feel exposed, open and vulnerable. Then he shoves Luke forwards into a building. It's some fancy high rise apartment, and the demon pushes him towards the lift. Luke tries not to feel claustrophobic as the doors slide shut and the demon leans over him, letting go of his arm to run a hand through his hair.

"You're kind of pretty for a boy," his words are cruel and the demon knows it. He's barely spent five minutes dragging Luke around but he already knows his weakness. "Isn't that a shame? Luke, isn't it? Lukey, Lukey-boy. Pretty little Lucy," he laughs, voice sing-songy, "Luci, Luci, Luci," he repeats, as if it's some private joke. "Pretty name for a pretty boy," he grins, teeth flashing.

Luke finds strength from somewhere as he snaps at the guy, shoving him away. The demon rocks with the blow, stepping away smirking. "I'll be in the right body soon," he snaps, "She said she'd fix it."

Belial laughs, "Is that so?" and for a moment Luke doubts that she is going to keep her side of the bargain.

Then the doors to the lift slide open.

"That's right," the woman is standing waiting for them. Luke steps out of the lift towards her, but Belial pauses, his eyes flaring yellow as he tilts his neck to the side, almost resting it on one shoulder, before snapping it up and almost skipping forwards.

He gives her a two fingered salute. "Naamah," he greets her, ignoring the wolf almost entirely now, "You look…" he examines her, leaning back slightly, "Better than when I last saw you," he presses his lips together. "You found your…" he gestures vaguely to his head and the woman's smile is thin and lethal, but still sweet.

"Belial." she replies, calmly, "Where did she find the ingredients necessary to break your prison?"

He moves, strolling around her and poking at an ornamental object of sorts, leaning closer to peer at it. The glass shape distorts his image, and yellow eyes burn like hell fire. "When did you start rolling with the dogs?" his gaze slides up to where Luke stands, and he flinches slightly. "You into that sort of thing now?" the male demon adds, tutting, "To think you'd sink so _low_."

She smiles sweetly, and reaches out, stroking Luke's cheek. He wants to flinch away, but he doesn't. "He's a long term investment."

Belial hums, chanting some sort of rhyme in that half-crazed tone. "A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go, Heigh ho, the dairy-o, a hunting we will go, We'll catch a fox and put him in a box, And then we'll let him go," he stops, shaking his head, "Except you caught yourself a wolf here Naamah." he leans forwards, whispering in an exaggerated stage whisper, "Don't get bitten."

Naamah's hand drops from Luke's face, her nails bright red and it reminds Luke of the blood that had been covering her arms the other night. She stalks forwards and Belial's head drops, chin almost to his chest and he looks up at her, eyes golden, swirled through with black. "How long is it?" and her voice drips poison, "Since you've been topside last?" and her smile is lethal.

"You'd know, wouldn't you?" he licks his upper lip. Everything about these two is unnatural. Not human. Belial is sassy and downright crazy, while she's all sickly sweet, cooing and crooning like everyone she talks too is a kid that deserves being patronised.

Right now though her tone is condensing and triumphant, "See last I heard… You haven't been topside in a looooong, long time. Didja' vessel give permission?"

"I don't need_ permission_ sweetheart," and he lunges forwards like a lion, hand around her neck.

She smirks. "Oh don't be angry," she flutters her eyelashes at the yellow-eyes. Luke stands still, watching the two of them riveted.

"Don't. _Test_. Me," he snarls, whispering and calmly stating each word. "I'm older than you. I was there when Lilith was born. And she was the first."

"Was," she whispers, and Belial drops her throat, lounging back and stuffing his hands in his pockets like a teenager. She continues, licking her lips, "Lilith's dead."

He shrugs, "So?"

She grins at him, and then spins around and paces towards Luke. She motions him forwards and he warily moves towards her. She wraps one arm around his shoulder, pulling him towards the crazy yellow-eyed demon. "Belial's going to help you get a new body," she whispers into one ear.

"Will it…" Luke feels stupid asking, but he trusts this demon over the other guy, who is currently rolling up his sleeves and grinning like a wolf at him. "Will it hurt?"

Belial shakes his head. Naamah also pats him reassuringly. "It won't hurt," she promises.

Her hands tighten on his shoulders and he wonders why, when the yellow-eye, without warning, steps forwards and plunges his hand into Luke's chest.

Luke just has enough time to see the yellow eyes flare and to think that this really, really hurts.

The demons lied. He guesses that he should have expected that.

Demons lie. They do that.

Then blackness overcomes him.


	5. Take Me Under

_Back to the supernatural guys. Next chapter shows us Beacon Hills though. I think I'm still emotionally traumatized by S3b but this is going to remain AU because if I bring in Kira (as much as I like her) I'll be dragging in the kitsune and all their nine tails and this focusses much more on the nemeton (for the TW guys) and the demons (for the SPN brothers, but the TW guys get a lot of them too)._

_And I have such fun things in store. Thank you if you've followed or favourited this story. And the reviews that I have had are brilliant and were used as motivation to get this chapter up. Thank you and I hope you enjoy._

* * *

**CHAPTER 5 - TAKE ME UNDER**

It is dark.

That is the first Sam is aware of when he opens his eyes. There isn't a single crack of light to be seen and the blackness is heavy, like a thick cloth choking down around him.

It is warm too, and he is sweating in the cramp space. He shifts slightly, and a residue complain runs up his nerves from his arms. He lets out a low moan, stiff and bruised. He feels weak, like he's gone three rounds with a werewolf, and he's just as battered.

He twitches his fingers, and apart from an ache in his arms and a horrible draining emotion, he's as functional as he's going to get for a man buried alive.

He remembers flashes, from drawing the devil's trap on the floor above, right through to where it all went sideways and Abaddon pulled him down and pinned both him and Dean to the walls.

Well now Sam can add being crucified to the list of the various situations he and Dean had survived from. He shifts again, reaching out for his brother, and finds him almost immediately. His legs are tangled up with Dean's, and he can't move his arms without pressing against Dean's chest. They fell together, both on their side and pressed together.

The only reassuring thing about this was that he can feel his brother's heart beat next to him. He shifts slightly away from Dean, and thankfully his legs move, not trapped by anything. He reaches out, and it's cramped, only about half a metre high but thankfully wide enough that he can stretch out of legs, reassuring himself that nothing is broken.

But Dean still lies unmoving, and in sudden panic Sam presses against the warm body of his brother, feeling the pulse.

"No, don't leave me," he begs, and shakes what he thinks is Dean's shoulder.

There's a low moan of pain and shifting as his brother moves. Sam winces as he feels the warm body shift away from him.

"Dean?" he asks into the darkness.

"'m not…" his brother coughs weakly, "Sammy… no… not coffin..."

Sam chews on his lip, and tastes blood and dirt. "Coffin? Did you… Dean are you okay?"

There's a sudden lurching and one of Dean's flailing arms hits him in the chest and he gasps, winded, before grabbing a hold of his brother and trying to stop him from destroying their little safety hole. Dean continues to struggle weakly, "I'm not… gotta' get out… fucking coffin again… dammit it Castiel you weren't supposed to leave me buried...fuck fuck fuck…"

"Dean!" Sam shouts, voice hoarse and his brother stills slightly. Sam swallows, his throat dry. He'd never thought before, that Dean must have had to dig his way out of that cheap pine box back in Illinois.

For several moments Dean's breathing is heavy, on the fringe of another panic attack. "Sam?" he asks instead. "I...what happened?"

"Don't you remember?" Sam probes.

"Uh...Yellow-eyed demon claws his way out of hell and possessing that poor guy." Dean mumbles, "Then he… no… nothing." Sam knows his brother is shaking his head with short, sharp shakes.

"Belial." Sam tries to get used to the name. "Isn't he… He's one of the angels that fell with Lucifer?" he remembers. They'd pulled up the name back when they were still trying to work out what the hell Castiel was, trawling through lists of demons powerful enough to pull a soul out of hell.

"Who fucking cares?" Dean's voice is weak, and he moves slightly and then stops with a sharp hiss of pain.

"Are you okay?" Sam reaches forwards, fingers finding soft skin. His hands are slapped away.

"Dude stop feeling up my face," and he can feel Dean's warm breath on his skin. "I… wait a minute…" His older brother shifts, and then lets out a triumphant 'hah'.

There is a metallic click and suddenly light flares. Sam flinches, and then blinks spots from his eyes, focussing on the lighter in Dean's hands.

"You don't even smoke," Sam tries to sound disapproving, but it's just pure relief as his gaze finds his brother's, able to see at last. Above him, long floorboards have fallen across, and between the gaps soil trickles down. It's the only thing that saved them, but Sam is used to thin luck and relaxes slightly for the time being.

Dean's face is pained, and one arm is pressed to the ground unmoving. He lies on the same shoulder, and so his whole body is tense, his right hand free to hold the wavering flame.

The light glints off something metallic and Sam is suddenly aware that the blades that had been in his arm had been twisted free, leaving the wounds to stop bleeding, at least for now. For his brother, one of the blades had been torn out, but in his left arm…

"Holy fuck Dean," Sam hisses, leaning over slightly to see better where the silver knife is buried into his brother's arm. Dean shifts slightly, cursing.

"I know," Dean hisses, teeth clenched.

"I'm gonna'… I'm gonna' have to pull it out," Sam looks up at his brother, who just rolls his eyes.

"Well"? Dean demands, "Get on with it then." he snaps, and looks up towards the makeshift ceiling of their prison.

Sam pressed Dean's arm down, and with the other hand grasps the blade. "Relax," he instructs.

Dean huffs, "Just get on with it," he snaps, and Sam feels the muscle relaxing, and without waiting he draws out the knife.

"Fuck!" Dean growls, arm flinching away. There is a steady trickle of blood that wells up, and Sam tears off the bottom part of his shirt to act as a makeshift bandage. "What happened to three, two, one, bitch?" Dean asks him.

The younger Winchester almost doesn't catch Dean's attempt at their old trade in insults. He doesn't think they've done that since… since Dean had made his deal. He let out a long breath, and spots his brother's glazed look.

Dean's already given up, he realises, pressing down on the wound. "Dean," he snaps, "Stay with me bro'." he turns it into an instruction; faintly reminisce of their father and his brother blinks at him.

"Why?" Dean's voice is weak, "S'not like you're going to save me."

Sam knew those words were going to come around bite him in the ass. He swallows down the words that spill out to justify why he said that, the whole spiel about self-sacrifice taking them around and round in circles and how he had to be the one to step back, because he knew that Dean never would. Instead he glares at his brother. "We'll get out," and it's a promise, determined and gritty and Sam knows that he's going to keep it.

"Well at least if we don't there's no need to dig a grave," Dean jokes, with a weak, broken smile. Sam hates it. Dean doesn't shut up. "After all apart from maybe Cas, it's not like anyone's gonna' care much about us."

"Who knows," Sam banters back, because if it makes Dean feel better he's play along, "Crowley might miss us."

"Miss the nicknames, maybe." Dean grins, "Bullwinkle," he teases.

"Shut up," Sam hisses, and the lighter flame flickers. He frowns, "Is that going to die on us?" he asks.

The older Winchester shakes his head, "No. It's new. Bought it at the last convenience store we stopped in."

Sam breathed out, realising suddenly how warm it is, and how they're trapped underground, with a limited supply of oxygen. He feels his pulse racing. "We're running out of air," he tells Dean, "We… there's not enough oxygen."

His brother lets out a laugh that's bitter and weak, "Well that sucks. Damn demon didn't even have the decency to kill us. Left us to die in what's turning out to be a fucking chick-flick moment."

Sam shifts up onto his elbow, peering at the ceiling and looking for a way out, a way to push aside the rubble and whatever else is sitting on top of them.

"We're gonna' be myths," Dean muses, slumping down. "The brothers who messed everything up and then saved the world. Hopefully they remember I'm the hot one. And that you're a freaking girl."

"Dean shut up!" Sam hisses, not liking Dean's train of thought, "We're not going to die." He drops back down heavily onto his shoulder. He thinks he might have pulled a muscle because it jars slightly. "Pray to Cas," he suggests.

One eyebrow arches, unimpressed. "The dude is at least three states away. And his pimp ride doesn't travel faster than an old lady on a mobility scooter. He's like freaking Brian Snail."

Sam opens his mouth and then pauses. "Brian." he asks voice flat. "You've seen 'The Magic Roundabout'?"

Dean frowns and there's a pause. "Yeah I...wait… _you've_ seen it?"

There's an awkward silence.

Sam clears his throat, forgetting the last part of that conversation ever happened. "Well at least he'd get here eventually. He might cremate us, in case we end up haunting this place."

His brother scoffs and looks at him, "You're telling me that after all this you're going to say 'no' to your reaper?"

The younger brunette doesn't answer.

"Okay, here's a plan," Dean suggests, "We take this off…" and he shifts his left arm slightly, and Sam can see where the blood has stained the bandage, smell it even in the confined space. "And you use the blood to call Crowley and get him to rescue us."

"Dean, no!" Sam hisses, "I… you can't survive losing more blood. And why don't we do it the other way around?"

Dean's smile is thin and his voice is flat, "Sam, out of the two of us, you're better off. You're more likely to make it out."

Hazel eyes roll towards the ceiling where soil trickles through. "I want to punch you right now," Sam says calmly, "Stop talking like this. Like you want to die. It makes me feel like you want to get away from me. Like you want me to be all alone."

"Not this again," Dean growls, and there is tension in the air.

"What's that meant to mean?" Sam challenges.

"So you'd be alone. BooHoo." Dean glares at him. Sam can feel the emotions in the gaze. "How do you think I feel then, since that's all you ever go on about?" the blonde hisses and Sam winces internally, "You don't shut up about it, and then you have the fucking gall to blame me for trying to save you." Sam opens his mouth to interject but Dean continues before he can, "And yes, it was selfish. But considering all the crap we've been through, I'm allowed to be a little selfish, because Sam, if I lose you… then what the fuck do I have left to live for?"

It feels like a blow to Sam's chest. "We always do this," he says quietly, since it seems that yes, they are going to do this here. "Something happens to one of us and then the other runs around and tries to fix it. It always comes at a cost and each time it gets higher and higher… Dean we're going around and round in circles."

"You say that," Dean murmurs, "But it's not exactly like when we try to step out of it that it works. Jess. Lisa. Ben. Amelia."

"Don't blame Lisa and Ben on me." Sam tells him. Dean meets his gaze and suddenly he wishes he hadn't said that, because he knows that Dean doesn't blame him, has never blamed him even though it was him (admittedly without a soul) who had dragged Dean back in.

Dean blames himself.

He always does.

Then again Sam knows Jess's death is his fault. Just as his chance with Amelia was thrown out of the window by him. He still wonders if he'd gone back to that motel whether she would have been there.

"There are always going to be casualties," Sam continues, "And one day we're both gonna' have to face the fact that one of us is going to be added to that fucking long list of dead. And then we're going to have to step back. And those trials… that was my turn. I was fucking ready Dean, I could have… done something with my life. Then you took that away, because you couldn't let me go."

"You're a hypocrite, you know that?" Dean glares at him, "Don't save me. But don't leave me. Do you want me to be alone, with absolutely no-one?"

"We're not dying now," Sam says, determinedly.

"Maybe it's 'my time'," Dean quotes Sam's own words back to him.

Sam shakes his head. "It isn't. You're going to get out of here and we're going to keep going. Just like always."

His brother shifts, holding his wounded arm closer to his chest. "That was what the trials were meant to be. That's why we agreed that you did them. Because there was meant to a light at the end. Then when we realise there isn't, and that we couldn't come out of it… I did what I had to Sam, and I'm never going to be sorry about that. Don't make me apologise for saving your life. Don't ever make me apologise for that. 'Cause I'm not sorry."

Much in the same way that Dean had curled in a little bit to protect his arm, his argument had curled in to protect himself.

Sam didn't have the heart to break it down. Not when his brother had a point. Not when he could hardly accuse Dean of being selfish and unable to let go off his brother, because when push came to shove…

Sam couldn't let go of Dean either.

He slumps slightly onto his back, and he hears Dean's breathing slow next to him.

"You aren't going to complain?" Dean asks him.

"You're a jerk, you know that?" Sam whispers.

"Uh…" Dean pauses. "So we're good?" he asks, almost hesitantly.

Sam hums, "We're good," he says. There is still stuff to be talked through, and the list is a mile long or so, but he doesn't blame Dean any more. Not that he ever really did but he'd been hurt and any trust there had been ripped away, at least now there was a new foundation built that they could work with.

"That's good, bitch," Dean sounds almost sleepy.

"Jerk," he answers instinctively and then smiles to himself. He stares up, planning for how to get out. He examines the floorboard, bowing slightly under the weight. There about six of them spread out across him, and running the same direction as his body. His gaze wanders to the edge, blinking at the edge of their little cavernous prison. It's mostly rubble stacked on top of itself, but there's a thin gap of darkness at the edge. He shuffles closer and sticks his hand in it, waving it about.

He half-expects something to grab him and pull him through, and he is relieved that the monster movies were right. He stretches forwards, encountering only soil walls and a gap that goes on. He leans back considering. He could probably fit his shoulders through there.

"I think I've got a route out," he says, trying to sit up a little more, but it cramps his neck. He rolls forwards instead onto his belly, and his shoulder gives a disapproving twinge. "What do you say? It's now or never."

There is no answer, and Sam glances sideways towards where Dean's eyes have slipped closed, breathing barely noticeable.

There a hollow pit in his stomach, and he remembers endless Tuesday's, that terrible Wednesday, and then again that night with the hell hounds.

Dean's right. He's a fucking hypocrite.

He shoves Dean, making sure to hit his injured arm. Dean jolts, eyes fluttering open weakly. His green eyes look gold in the candle light. "Wha' S'mmy?" he asks, blearily.

"We're getting out." Sam tells him, "Now."

Dean's eyes slide closed again and Sam shoves him. "Up." he barks it out like an order. "Get up Dean."

His brother forces his eyes open, and Sam grabs the lighter, as Dean uses his right hand to manoeuvre himself up until his head hits the ceiling.

It's warm in there, too warm, and Dean's eyes are still glazed. His blood loss is worse than Sam's own, and vaguely Sam wonders if this reminds Dean of hell, or waking up in his coffin alive, buried underground.

He eases himself to the edge of the cavern, and the knife he had pulled from Dean's arms digs into where he had stuffed it into his belt. He motions for Dean to move next to him and slips his hands into the gap, finding the edge of the section of floorboards.

"What 'ya doin'?" Dean slurs slightly, shifting closer to him. Sam grasps hold of his brother's collar and pulls him closer. "Woah," Dean mumbles, "I always knew you were a cuddler."

Sam hits him in the shoulder. Hard.

It has the desired effect as with a hiss Dean rolls over, until he is leaning on his elbows, glaring at Sam. The glare barely masks the pained grimace from the sudden movement. Meanwhile Sam sits up as best he can in the cramped space, and reaches for the gap above them. There are floorboards and then fresh soil, soil that can be dug through and shouldn't be more than a few feet, otherwise they wouldn't be lying there alive, they would have already been crushed to death.

"Hold your breath," he warns Dean. He takes a few seconds to check that Dean does that before flicking the lighter out, pocketing it, and then yanking the floorboard down.

All at once the soil pours down, and Sam snaps away another section of the floor. Their mock ceiling broken, the roof is beginning to cave in, and Sam struggles to pull him and Dean through sideways to where there was a makeshift tunnel. Dean flails and begins to shift himself so Sam lets go, concentrating on getting the soil out of the way as he practically swims upwards.

There's a long moment of scrabbling and choking on the thick blackness, and Sam thinks that this was a stupid idea, when he hands break through into a gap.

His hand flails for something to grasp onto, and he claws his way forwards in a manner similar to the demon. His limbs feel heavy and he wants to breath, his lungs are burning and his eyes are pressed tightly shut, and for a moment he thinks it would be so easy to just stop, to just give up and greet Death like an old friend.

Something clenches around his arm and pulls, and he feels himself moving upwards. His head breaks through the earth and he sucks in a heaving breath. It's dark, but not pitch black, and Sam doesn't know how they did it, but his instincts were right. The gap he'd found led right to the surface, and once the floorboards were out of the way he had successfully pulled himself out.

He heaves up, his shoulders breaking through. His right shoulder still hurts, and his arms throb painfully. The right one has started to bleed, he thinks, but it's hard to tell because he's covered in soil that if there is blood, it's hard to see the red amongst the brown.

With a final pull he kicks his way out, and rolls onto his back, sucking in great gulps of air.

Oh crap.

He lurches upright, muscles protesting as he turns to the hole he had crawled out of, his mind only focussed on one thought.

Dean.

He dives right back in without thinking, hands sifting through soil and rubble and for once he's thankful he's so large, when he finds soft fabric and pulls.

Dean really needs to lay off the burgers, he thinks, wrapping his arm around Dean's and rearing backwards. Dean's head breaks the soil, and Sam leans forwards, brushing soil from his brother's face and mouth.

Breath dammit, Sam thinks, and shifts Dean onto his back, listening for his breathing. It's there, and it's faint, and he pinches Dean's nose and breathes into Dean's mouth, trying to get some oxygen into his brother.

Said brother splutters, eyes fluttering. Sam leans back, slumping in relief as green eyes narrow at him, weary and fatigued but so, so alive. It was the best thing Sam had ever seen.

"Were you kissing me?" Dean asks, and his focus drifts for a few seconds before refocussing on Sam. His breathing is still weak, and now Sam sees why, spots the great bruises around Dean's throat from where Abaddon had a weird fascination with strangling his brother. No wonder his brother keeps slipping away with his bruised windpipe.

Sam can barely hear him, it's a hoarse whisper, weak and barely there but Dean's still alive, and he collapses to the floor in relief.

"Dude, not cool," Dean mumbles, and Sam listens in relief to his brother's steadier, even breaths.

"Thought we were goners," Sam mumbles.

"How d'we get out?"

"I pulled free… I… someone pulled me free," Sam tells him, the last bit a wondrous whisper of relief, but Dean's not really listening anymore, his eyes closed tiredly. He's not asleep, his breathing is too heavy, but he seems to be savouring the taste of air, so Sam leaves him too it. He looks up, hoping to see whoever it was who had dragged him out… had there actually been anyone there.

The room is empty and in the back of Sam's mind, he wonders if he was imagining it all.

Maybe he just doesn't want to die after all.

He rolls over and grins at Dean, "Belial's mine," he leers at his brother. "You got the last yellow-eyed demon. This one is aaall mine."

Dean shows him his middle finger. "Bite me," he mumbles, "You got the white-eyes."

Sam laughs. "You're gonna have to race me then," he says, "Since Abaddon seems to be your game an all."

The smile that flits across Dean's face isn't pleasant, but considering Sam is currently plotting the various ways he can kill the new yellow-eyed bastard on the block, he probably has a similar 'let's kill it' grin on his face, made slightly more hysterical and maniacal by the dirt and blood smeared all over them.

"Dude." Sam laughs, "Holy crap we probably look like zombies. Ya' hear that? Zombies?"

"You're freaking high," Dean is probably rolling his eyes, but Sam has relaxed back onto the floor, staring at the sky through the hole in the roof.

For the first time in a while he feels like they're back in the game.

Together. Just as they should be.


	6. Echoes

_Back to Beacon Hills! And Scott isn't the only one freaking out. As much as I love Scott and Stiles, this story actually doesn't favour one or the other. Allison and Lydia get their fair share of plot too. The pairings which are probably going to be background are going to be Allison/Isaac and Stiles/Lydia. (For Supernatural there is a lot of vague Dean/Cas stuff). This is far more character and plot driven than anything else._

_It's also self-beta'd so any mistakes are my fault. Feel free to point them out - I'd be very grateful!_

_Enjoy._

* * *

**CHAPTER 6 - ECHOES**

The school car park is crowded. Kids pushing bicycles, with bags slung over one shoulder and heads turned, not looking where they walk as they chat to friends. People run out, chasing after footballs and in a rush to get in before the bell rings. It's a nightmare, and Allison slams her foot down on the brake for the fifth time as someone steps out in front of the car without even looking. They don't even notice as she jerks to a halt, and Lydia's expression in the passenger seat is perfectly poised in distaste.

Part of her kind of hopes that one day one of these stupid kids gets run over, because it would serve them right. She spins the wheel, slipping into a free spot. Half-expecting something to crunch under the car tyres, she sinks back in relief as the engine cuts out without any issues. Lydia glances sideways at her.

"You okay?" she asks, and Allison nods.

"Just tired," she says, and reaches into the back seat to grab her bag. The passenger opens as Lydia clambers out, and then closes softly with a click. Allison pauses for only a moment before following.

The buses are pulling up and in the distance she spots the green bike of Scott's, the boy himself just a dark figure leaning over while a lanky Stiles tries to explain something with his usual wide, exaggerated arm gestures. Once she would have gone over, and greeted Scott with a smile and a kiss, but now she just watches, strangely at peace with the distance between them.

"Oh no," Lydia sighs, arms crossed. She leans back against the car slightly, observing the approach of a familiar figure. Allison can't see Lydia's expression, her back is turned to her, but she knows her friend is pouting, unsure whether to play coy or dismissive.

Aidan grins and it reminds Allison of a wolf. Not surprising really. She's guessing it's Aidan, because she can't really tell the pair apart, but considering the other twin is currently lounging around Danny and the pair are exchanging meaningful eye contact she thinks she's pretty safe in her assumption.

Lydia has an uncanny ability to tell the pair apart, and now she uses that to tilt her head sideways, in preparation for some twisted flirtation that she will probably end up throwing in Aidan's face and walk away, leaving him staring after her.

"I'll see you up at school."

"See you," Lydia waves a hand dismissively, and for a moment Allison worries about leaving Lydia alone with a werewolf, but she knows that if anyone is going to come out of this situation worse off, it won't be her friend.

Lydia is a force of nature.

Allison sighs, tucking a strand of dark hair behind one ear as Lydia strolls off to chat to Aidan. She straightens the bag strap on her shoulder and takes the path up towards school. The usual noises of morning at Beacon Hills High is muted, almost as if she's hearing it through water, but then again, her thoughts are probably elsewhere.

She doesn't think twice about it.

"Hello?"

She doesn't pay much attention to the voice. It's almost a whisper, a child talking to someone else. Someone shoves past her and she pauses, affronted, and that's when she hears it again.

"Will you help us? Why won't anyone help us?"

Allison stops, and she turns around, but there is nothing but the bustle of students.

She turns and keeps walking.

"Hello?" Allison freezes at the voice as it speaks again. She's barely made it three more steps, "Can you help us?"

She spins around with all her hunter instincts blazing because she had heard nobody approach. The other students fade into the background as she searches again for the disembodied voice and for all intents and purposes there should be no-one there.

She's right. There isn't.

She stares at the empty path in puzzlement, but the voice says nothing more. She turns around.

And freezes. In front of her is a young girl, dark hair plastered to her face as if wet. Her skin is pale and water drips from her clothes. "He's coming." The voice whispers, and the child's lips barely move but Allison knows it is her.

Around her students move, pushing forwards without care, and nobody glances twice at the child. Allison is enraptured with the dark hair that is plastered to the girl's neck, the slight tilt of the head and the pleading, begging eyes that say a hundred things, even while the girl barely whispers.

She takes a step back. The child blinks at her, so, so pale and so, so, dead. "Who are you?" Allison demands. "What... what happened to you?"

"He came for me," the child whispers, and she steps forwards after Allison. As she does the colour seeps from her form and her hair bleaches blonde and her eyes grow pale. "He's coming."

"Who is?" Allison asks, unsure whether she should be comforting or attacking this broken creature.

The child just gazes at her with those mournful eyes, "We're so cold." She whispers, and her form flickers, "We're so, so cold, won't you help us?"

"I... yes... what...?" Allison shakes her head and with a terribly certainty stops, because this child in front of her drips water but leaves no footprints. She stands in the light yet casts no shadow.

There is nobody there.

Nobody living at any rate.

"He is coming back," the child is mournful, "Our star is returning. And we shall all burn." Then she opens her mouth and lets out a piercing scream.

* * *

He drifts in and out of varying states of being that currently he can't put a name to, and later he won't remember. At times it is humid, almost too hot as if he is walking through a tropical rainforest, and later he is too cold, icy as if all the heat has been drained away.

That's okay for the most part. It doesn't hurt that way.

Then there are the memories that flash through him, shattered fragments like broken glass that cut him, and they hurt. They tear and slice him apart. He hears Nate's scream, sees Luke's panicked face, listens to Lexi's begging whispers.

The demon laughs in his dreams, and it's just like that night, where her voice grates like sandpaper, beautiful but completely and utterly deadly.

Her eyes are empty black hollow voids, and in them Jethro sees oblivion. He sees hell fire and burning ice. He sees broken wings and charred feathers.

He sees eternity. He sees the present.

And the present burns.

Jethro lies silently in agony that wears him down, until it feels like he's run a hundred miles or so, and then he slips down again, to the cold and the heat and the empty nothingness of everlasting dreams.

* * *

Stiles hands tremble, as he trails behind Scott into the school. "I don't get it dude… first I'm seeing strange symbols everywhere, and now you too?" He's freaked, but he's still managing to take this all in his stride. They've seen weirder, right? Killer lizards, his best friend turning a little furry… and how the hell had he not yet made a 'time of the month' joke yet? It's a wasted opportunity in his mind.

So yeah, Stiles isn't exactly terribly worried because in terms of things they had had to deal with recently, seeing weird symbols wasn't at the top of his list. In fact he didn't even think it made the top ten.

Not that he actually had a list written out anywhere or anything. That would just be weird.

His best friend stumbles ahead of him, and for a werewolf Scott lacks a certain amount of grace sometimes. Stiles wonders how Scott managed to even become an alpha, and then mentally scoffs, because even if Scott might not be the stereotypical big, bad alpha that Derek tried and failed to be, he inspires loyalty and hope and that's really all a pack needs in a leader.

Said fluffy wolf fumbles with his locker key, jabbing it in the lock as if he is potentially trying to stab the metal. His friend's eyes look anywhere but him. They've always been open with each other, but admitting to potential insanity?

Stiles just hopes they can have neighbouring rooms when they finally end up in the mental institution.

"I looked it up," Stiles rests one shoulder on his locker, pressing closer to Scott than was strictly necessary. But in this school he never knows who might be listening in. "That pentagram I saw on the road? With all the squiggles in?"

"What about it?" Scott's voice is calm and carefully measured.

Stiles drops his backpack and crouches down beside it. H pulls out sheaves of paper. Half of it is his thick chemistry coursework that hasn't been handed in since their last chemistry teacher got gutted, garrotted and generally killed by an insane evil druid.

He tosses it down on the floor, out of the way, shoving the google image symbols in front of Scott's nose. The werewolf finally succeeds in pulling open his locker and uses that as a shield to peer at the various signs. "So what do they mean?" he squints at them, as Stiles waves them under his nose. "Are they connected to the Nemeton?"

"This?" Stiles pokes the paper with his finger, "This is all satanic shit."

"Wait…" Scott paws the paper away from his face, fingers clenching the paper and he rifles through it, before pulling a page out, "That…" he gestures at the triangular symbol. "I've seen that before… what is it?"

Stiles splays his hands out in a 'I have no clue' gesture, "Uh… something satanic. To do with the devil."

On some sixth sense well-honed by years of shouting in their ear during whispered conversations, and one time when the guy had hit them with books on the back of the head in class once, the pair stop talking, just in time for Coach to walk past, barking insults at where Greenberg's bag has split open, sending books and pencils rolling out across the corridor.

"The world hates us," Stiles sighs, and grabs his bag, shoving the print-outs back in it. He makes wild gestures for where his chemistry lies on the floor, not glancing down. He wishes he could have his own super powers, because telekinesis would be really awesome.

Someone shoves them at him. He stares at them in surprise, because he's pretty sure he didn't manage to move them with the powers of his mind. He pouts, disappointed and thanks his friend instead for taking the five seconds that it would have taken him to pick them up, "Thanks Scott," he mumbles.

"What?" Scott glances over his shoulder at Stiles, from where he is currently trying to peer either really closely at Isaac, or around the beta and outside at something through the window. His locker door is closed and he's moved away, nowhere near Stiles' vicinity.

Yet the papers someone had shoved at him crinkle in his hands, and his breath catches. He looks up. Lounging against the lockers, his arms crossed, and form pale a ghost grins at him.

Stiles never quite expected a ghost to look so life-like, but he knows it's a ghost. He's not ever seen one before, but there's nothing else this can be, because the guy standing before him is well, and truly dead.

Matt flays his fingers in a little wave. "Hey'a Stiles," he smirks.

* * *

"What is it?" Lydia asks, "What's wrong?" and she stares uncannily straight towards the spot where the dead child stands, mouth wide open shrieking.

Allison spins around, and the sound is gone, just a ringing in her ears which is replaced by the school bell, screaming at her. She looks back, but she already knows that the child is gone, the paving slab empty and bone dry.

"I… nothing…" she stops, blinking and she shakes her head a little. "There was someone there," she whispers, and Lydia steps closer. She reaches out, and Allison feels one hand rest on her shoulder, but it's disconnected, as if she's not really aware of it.

"Was there?" Lydia keeps Allison facing her, and their gazes meet.

The hunter looks away. "I'm sure of it," she nods, "She… it was a little girl. She was soaking wet…" she pulls away from Lydia's grasp and takes two measured steps forwards and then spins. The air around her is cold. "She was right, here." she whispers, and her terrified gaze meets Lydia's. "She said he was coming. That he was coming back."

* * *

"Holy crap," Stiles drops his bag, stumbling backwards. Matt watches his with cold dead eyes, head tilting to one side as if sizing up a piece of prey. "Fuck." He swears, and he searches for some other word to sum it up, but can't think of any, "Fuck." He repeats again, because nothing is processing beyond the dead guy.

Scott spins to him, "Dude what?" he hisses, looking slightly alarmed by the swearing.

Matt Daehler chuckles, straightening up, "Can't you guess, Stiles?" he asks, shaking his head, and then leans forward in a whisper, but the effect is negated as Stiles throws himself backwards to the other side of the corridor, "You're going crazy," he breaths. People passing glance at Stiles strangely and Scott grabs onto him, his hands digging into Stiles arm. He can't take his eyes off Matt, and subconsciously he is aware of his breath fogging in front of him. The air is cold, and Matt's body is pale, like it's been whitewashed on an old photograph.

Matt's been dead for months. A year, if not more. Stiles doesn't exactly count these things.

He blinks. Matt's form flickers, like a badly tuned old television. Then his shape blurs and comes back into focus and the dark-haired dead teen grins. It's that same, psycho kind of smile he had given them before pointing a gun at them and shooting Scott. "You don't see him?" Stiles whispers, tearing his gaze away from Matt to meet his friend's worried expression. "Please to God Scott tell me you can see him," he whispers.

Scott turns, obviously following Stiles' gaze. Stiles glances back to where Matt had been standing, casually slouched with his hands in his pockets.

"See who?" Scott asks, and Stiles' stomach plummets.

Matt is gone.

There is no-one there.

* * *

"I'm seeing dead people?" Allison paces back and forth across an empty classroom. Isaac peers through the door and then moves over to her.

"Why do you say she was dead?" he asks, "You just said it was a little girl."

"She was drowned," Allison snaps, and Isaac nods, because yeah, that means the girl was probably dead.

Lydia has one hand to her temple, fingers pressing so hard that they have turned white. She shakes her head, "I'm not…" she frowns, "I'm not getting anything." Her shoulders straighten and she looks up at them, worried. "It's all quiet."

"Too quiet." Isaac mutters.

Lydia blinks. "Allison, can you hit your boyfriend for me?"

"He's not my…"

"She's not my…"

Lydia grins, "That's cute." she says, her voice all too knowing. "But can we get back to the dead kid?"

"I miss conversations that didn't start with 'can we get back to the dead kid'," Isaac sighs, perching on a desk, hands palm down on the wood. Lydia shoots him a glare which is actually slightly terrifying.

"Uh...guys?" Allison's voice prompts both Isaac and Lydia to turn to face her. She is staring at the blackboard, but her gaze is focussed on something just in front of it. "Please tell me you can see that?"

"See what?" Lydia whispers.

* * *

It's not the child this time. Instead it's a woman with long hair and pretty dark lashes. The chalk is rubbing off on her hands, making them pale and white. Her back is to Allison as the huntress starts towards the front of the classroom.

Chalk squeaks against the blackboard, a horrible grating sound that sends a chill up her spine. Her eyes are transfixed on the female who is slightly older than her, probably late twenties.

Dust floats in the air, caught in the sun beams as the pattern is traced out. The woman starts at the top and brings the chalk around in an anti-clockwise loop. Once she reaches the starting point she brings it down at a sharp angle, and then across. For another three lines she continues this until once again the top point is reached.

A star is drawn, five sides and residing inside a circle. The chalk makes a protesting whine as the woman automatically begins to draw it again, over and over on top of the previous. Her movements are slow and mechanical, as if she is merely a puppet being controlled by strings.

"Hello?" Allison speaks up. It feels like she is the only one in the room when Isaac steps into her field of vision, grabbing her hands.

The scratch of the chalk stops and she shakes off the beta werewolves hands. "What are you seeing?" Isaac asks.

"There's someone by the black board," Allison whispers. Almost as if she heard herself mentioned the woman begins to turn, and her whole image violently flickers. Her movements shift jerkily, as if on fast-forward and then suddenly slow as Allison, for the first time, takes in the woman's face.

Brown eyes smile at her. "You let me die." She doesn't say it. Instead she mouths it, but the silence is almost worse.

Then her imager flickers and she vanishes. The chalk drops to the ground with a small clatter.

Kate Argent is gone.

* * *

It's been four days since they first started seeing the ghosts.

Already Stiles has managed to push it to the back of his mind, because the last thing he needs is for someone to see him talking to thin air. His fingers twitch, full of pent of energy and back home on his desk paper sits piled high, full of research and everything and anything he can dig up about ghosts. It's not been much good, and he's going to drag Scott and maybe Lydia to find some decent books in the town centre sometime.

He feels a stupid and guilty sense of relief that it's not just him. Scott's finger wavers as he points to something outside on the curb. If Stiles squints he can sort of see the air shimmer.

It had taken a while to conclude that Stiles wasn't the only one going mad. They had yet to confirm anything with Allison, since Scott seemed reluctant to approach her, but the sacrifice was the only thing that joined the dots.

"Where?" Stiles squints at the shimmery air. Maybe, he concludes, the ghosts are just not on the right frequency to be seen by him as well as Scott.

"There, in front of the bushes!" Scott tries to explain, but there are about five different sets of bushes outside and his directions don't help.

"The one with the pink buds?" Stiles tries to narrow it down.

The air over his shoulder is cold and he stiffens, as Matt leans over, "No, he means the one with the yellow roses growing in front and the rainbow that ends there. Yes, the one with the pink flowers, idiot." The ghost's tone is chiding and sarcastic and completely unappreciated. Matt shows up at random and annoying times, always just when Stiles turns around, or when he thinks he's totally alone and he looks up to see the pale dead figure leering at him.

He felt sorry for Allison, and wishes he could have gotten a different ghost to haunt him…

Maybe he shouldn't go there.

"So she's just standing there?" he asks Scott.

His friend stares out, "It's as if she's waiting for someone. She was there yesterday. And the day before. And… the whole past week she's just been… I thought she was waiting for the bus but… if she's a ghost…" he stops and gazes mournfully at her, looking saddened as if the ghost girl is leaking emotions or something. Stiles doesn't think that's the case because he hasn't had an urge to start killing anybody, although maybe it's just because Scott's part animal, and animals can sense this sort of thing.

"When is it ever someone waiting for a bus?" Matt picks at something under his nails and Stiles grits his teeth. "Hey, it could have been worse." the dead teenager grins.

Stiles doesn't ask how, but Matt must hear it anyway.

"You know how," he leers, and then with a static flicker his form is gone. Stiles' shoulders are tense for a moment more before they slump, relaxing. He doesn't know why Matt's haunting him, or why Scott keeps seeing the lonely girl everywhere, and it's not the ghosts or the mocking and eerie chills that now seem to follow him around that scares him.

It's the not knowing.

"We're going crazy," Stiles lays it all out for where his friend sits on his bed. "Mad. We're seeing _ghosts_," he emphasises the last word, because no matter how many times he says it, it doesn't sink in.

"And weird symbols," Scott adds, "All week. And… most of this week too."

Stiles thinks back to two weeks ago, and the white chalk on the road. "Since the full moon," he breathes, "I've been seeing this stuff since the full moon."

Scott opens his mouth and then closes it again, swallowing. He looks back outside but the girl must be gone for his gaze scans the street outside his house, and focusses on nothing. "Is Matt still hanging around?" Scott asks, distractedly.

Stiles doesn't need to check. The air is still cold though and he's not surprised to see the girl spinning in his chair. He'd already had a freak out when he had woken up to see her sitting on his windowsill, and he had woken his dad with his startle cry.

Heather is grinning softly, straddling the seat backwards and her fingers just curl over the top of the seat. She doesn't say anything, and Stiles would never admit it, but he prefers her presence to Matt's. Matt is creepy and there is something lost about him that lingers in shadows. Stiles isn't afraid of Matt. He knows Matt, the scared kid who lashed out. It's what he can't see that freaks him out.

Heather just is. She sits there and eyes him, but apart from a few cryptic messages she seems a lot like Scott's ghost. She seems sad. As if she doesn't want to be there but she is, and so she hangs onto Stiles like a lifeline of familiarity.

"I haven't seen him since Friday." Stiles lies to Scott, because he doesn't want to worry his friend. Matt had been around on Friday, perched on his desk, waving at him. Stiles had thrown a pencil at the guy, straight through one eye, and then played a game with himself scoring himself as he threw various objects through Matt's head.

"Dude. Today _is_ Friday," Scott shakes his head.

Stiles frowns, "No. Today is Saturday. Remember? _Saturday_." he draws the word out and then glances at his calendar to check, but he's pretty sure he's right. He hasn't seen school today yet which meant it was definitely a weekend day, thankfully, because if he has to listen to Coach's barking voice one more time he's going to punch the guy. Or hit him with a baseball bat.

The alpha's hands are clenched into fists, "Saturday?" he asks weakly, "I… I could have sworn it was Friday." He shakes his head again, looking a little dazed. Scott's really kind of out of it, now Stiles thinks about it. There had been times he had been functioning on automatic, as if he wasn't really aware of what he was doing.

"You're not really here," Heather points out from the chair, adding in her usual little snippet of unhelpful advice, "Kind of like us really… you should have passed on by now." Her voice is laced with sorrow.

Scott's nails curl into his palm and Stiles drops down in front of him, holding his friend's shoulder's, "Hey, dude… relax…"

"Relax?" Scott's voice trembles slightly, "I'm… I…" he swallows, throat convulsing and then appears to physically force himself to breath. The red that had been growing in his eyes relaxes and then dies completely back to their usual puppy dog brown.

"How long do you think you can cling on?" Heather asks, finger tracing a pattern along the top of the chair, "Before you let go and fall altogether?" she flutters her eyelids at Stiles, gaze heavy with words unsaid and he looks away, heart heavy.

Stiles wonders if there are worse things than being haunted by ghosts. He could be dead, he guesses. He could be dead and haunted by ghosts. That would suck.

"We're losing it dude," Scott whispers, and his gaze is scared, "We're freaking losing it."

He glances back towards the chair but Heather is gone. He's slightly disappointed, but squashes it down, because the poor girl is dead. She had been used as a sacrifice in a stupid ritual for Julia or Jennifer or whatever her name was.

He wants to laugh, because ghosts showing up… well at least there are plenty to go around.

He ignores the part of himself that remembers that there is one particular ghost he doesn't think he would mind visiting him.

* * *

"Here," Melissa passes the files over to Argent on Monday morning. Chris takes them, assessing the contents for a few long moments, "That's the best I could do," she says. Above her the lights flicker.

Chris glances upwards and then down again. Melissa marvels over his ability to speak without moving his mouth at all.

"We've got electrical problems," she waves one hand dismissively, but makes a mental note to get someone in to fix the bulb in the records rooms, "We've got electricians all over the building trying to find the source of the problem." She leans closer, "Personally," she adds, "I'm thinking rats. So I hope they find them soon or this hospital could very soon be in debt."

The stoic hunter nods and waves the files at her, "Thanks," he says, "Can I have a copy of these?"

Melissa shakes her head, "Those are confidential as it is. You don't know how many laws I'm breaking here just letting you see them." She looks to the files in his hands, "Why do you need them anyway?"

"The girl who died…" he begins, "She was… what… five? And she drowned? Where were her parents?"

The nurse glances at the name. One Theresa Moore who had been dead on arrival from drowning in the river, "Did you know the family?" she asks, her head still tilted upside down, peering at the file.

Chris stares down at the brown paper for a moment before he spins it around and passes it back to her. "Thanks," he says, skirting around her question, "For letting me see this."

She turns and tries to search for the right box that it had originated from. "It's no problem. But I'm pretty sure that this isn't anything weird. It was just an unfortunate death. Tragic really."

"Yeah," Chris nods slowly, "But it doesn't explain why Allison is seeing this child's ghost."

As if one cue the lights flicker and this time both adults look upwards. "Ghosts are a thing?" Melissa asks slowly.

The hunter nods curtly.

She takes a deep breath and then shrugs it off. A homicidal lizard was still weirder. "Have you see her?" she asks, finally succeeding in dropping the file back in the right location. "The girl?"

"Allison has," Chris seems tense, and rightly so, "It's just those three seeing them. After what they did…"

He doesn't even need to specify who 'those three' are, Melissa just knows. And yet he hasn't told her yet.

She takes a calm breath and thinks that her hands-off mothering is about to be thrown out the window because like it or not, she wants to stay involved with her son's life (and unfortunately that of his many weird friends and the kid she sort of adopted. She should really get around to making that official sometime).

There is movement in the corridor outside and with regret she watches the person who passes. "Excuse me," she says, "I should see to this…" and she hurries towards where a blonde girl around seventeen lingers. Chris watches for a few seconds, before turning off the lights and closing the door.

* * *

"So," Melissa feels like the bad cop as she greets Scott on Monday after he gets home from school, "What's this I hear about ghosts?"

There is a splutter and both McCalls turn to see Isaac choking on the water he had been drinking. "You too?" Isaac stares at Scott. Melissa looks between them, wondering at the lack of communication over that past week.

* * *

Scott is torn, and slightly hurt. He'd spent most of last week after all, psyching himself up to tell Allison, only to turn around and walk away, because she didn't need him anymore.

She had Isaac, and Scott didn't know whether to be reassured by that or saddened by his loss.

"Well?" Melissa has her arms crossed. She only ever wears that expression to when she's annoyed. She's not angry though, she's worried. "I had to hear it from Chris Argent of all people. And he heard it from Allison after she finally told him last week."

Isaac wipes splashes of water from his chin and moves towards Scott, and then stops when Melissa turns to look at him. "I'm sorry," he says, and his eyes duck to the ground in something almost akin to submission, "I… I didn't think you'd want to know… it is Allison who's seeing them, not me and it wasn't really my place to tell…" Isaac is babbling, Scott realises. Not only that, but the poor guy is so unused to a mother's chiding love that he thinks she's angry at him.

Melissa's hands drop to her sides, "Oh Isaac, I'm not mad," she steps towards Isaac, and the teenager can't stop the abortive flinch he makes as she reaches towards him. She stops, and smiles at him, and Scott suddenly wonders if this is what it feels like to have a brother. (Other than Stiles who practically already lived at their house. He was also positive Stiles had stolen all the baseball bats, and that despite breaking them all on attempting to give a werewolf a concussion, his mom had still gone out and bought him a nice metallic one for his last birthday. It was like some sort of weird McCall initiation present. Maybe they should get Isaac one…).

Isaac ducks away, not meeting anyone's gazes. "I'll uh…" he waves his hand, "I'll make dinner," he moves back into the kitchen.

Melissa stares sadly after him. Scott wonders if it's enough to get him out of the 'mom glare' that despite her hands off parenting, Melissa has somehow still managed to acquire.

"So," she turns back to him and his heart falls. "Ghosts?"

* * *

"It's not that bad," Stiles tells him. Scott sits slumped in a chair and is currently gazing at a window with a bright red sigil on it that looks like it is painted in blood. He can even smell it, rust and iron in his nose and he flinches slightly. The ghost girl sits leaning against the wall, fingers daubed with the red paint as she dabs at the floor, bored, but still waiting for something that Scott doesn't know.

"Dude," he turns away from the nameless blonde girl, "We see ghosts."

"Yeah?" Stiles shrugs, "Well they haven't tried to kill us yet."

"I don't like the 'yet' in that sentence," Scott grumbles.

Stiles shoves him off the chair and leans over the laptop sitting over on the desk. "So, I did some research," Stiles says, head bent low. "Like… a lot. All last week. And most of the weekend. And Lydia agreed to help us scour the bookshops. The best I could find from internet search once I got past the spiritual stuff, to keep yourself from evil spirits blah blah…" his fingers fly across the keys and Scott shoves him down so he can peer over his friend's shoulders, revealing Stiles is typing a long winded phrase into google.

"Then," Stiles continues, as a half-decent website that is totally ruined by the weird logo of these guys called the 'ghostfacers' pops up, "There's all this belief about horseshoes that are meant to bring good luck and actually protect people. Celtic beliefs also have a cross made of rowan and bound in red thread will ward off the bad stuff."

Scott stands, "That's not going to help. Is there anything useful?"

"Other than condiments and buying expensive gemstones that do nothing?" Stiles shrugs, "I've found nothing."

"Condiments? So we throw ketchup at them?" Scott actually contemplates this for a moment, "Maybe they'll think it's blood."

Stiles abandons the computer, leaving Scott's computer on a spiritual website about how to cleanse your house from evil spirits. It's a load of rubbish. With a sigh the alpha closes it and a bunch of pop-up windows appear. Sinking back into his seat he clicks on the close buttons as Stiles begins to pace. "Not ketchup," he explains, "Salt is meant to purify though apparently." he spreads his hands out in a 'why the hell not' gesture that Scott stops before it can get too far.

"Dude, you are not stealing my mom's salt shaker. She'll kill you."

Stiles flops on Scott's bed as if it was his own. "Then what do we do? Just shrug and ignore the dead people?"

"Maybe.… Scott glances at his window where the blonde girl is daubing red patterns on the clear glass. "If this is an after effect of being a sacrifice then… well at least we're not dead, that's all I'm saying."


	7. Swap Our Places

_Sorry - I normally update on Sundays, but I updated my AO3 account but not this one. Anyway, here you go. This update is in two parts, this with the British trio who are severely and continentally displaced and then a Winchester chapter._

* * *

**CHAPTER 7 - SWAP OUR PLACES**

"It's been a month. What if he doesn't get better?"

"He will Lex, he will. He has to."

"And where we gonna' stay? Live in this crappy motel room?"

Nate glances around the dodgy motel. They had found an empty room on the second floor. The carpet is peeling up in the corners, there's an old bed with the spring shoved through, sticking out like antennae and it had been used to stack boxes that now sit coated with dust.

Their accommodation is just the first on many problems that Jethro had caused for them. She eyes her boots, the laces fraying slightly.

They are in America. What the hell had motivated Jethro to magically teleport them to fucking America?

They had arrived with nothing but the clothes on their back. No passports, no money, no health insurance, and no family.

"I want to go home," Lexi stares pleadingly at her. It's been this way for three weeks. Another full moon is fast approaching, and nothing had changed since they had arrived.

Instead Nate, desperate and on edge and attempting to avoid awkward interviews at the hospital had woven lies on top of lies. Thankfully the nurse, though suspicious, doesn't ask too many questions and their story had grown slightly more solid.

She mentally laughs. Their story might be a solid brick wall but it was balanced on a pole. It anyone poked about too much it was going to fall over.

Thankfully she had at least been able to transfer some money over. Her first instinct had been to phone one of the pack members, but with sadness she knew she no longer could. Other things like documentation and ID was harder, but manageable. Expensive too, and she hopes it will be worth it.

When the sisters aren't breaking laws left right and centre, they are breaking into houses for money and food. Lexi's moral compass had emerged here, but Nate's sharp arguments had won easily enough.

They are desperate with nothing to lose.

Except their friend who lies dying in the hospital.

He still shows no improvement, and a part of Nate worries. Another part shrugs it off, uncaring. A third part, one she's only just beginning to realise exists, is trying to make a decision that is best for her pack.

Her decidedly small pack.

* * *

She recalls arriving in Beacon Hills. That's the name of the town, apparently, somewhere in California, inland, because it's at least two hours to the sea. She remembers being squeezed tightly, as if shoved through a hole far too small, and all she could do was clench her eyes closed and hang on tightly to her sister and friend.

She remembers landing, the ground rushing up to meet them as gravity suddenly took a hold of them, and their weightless limbs were ensnared and she had fallen to the forest floor, leaves crunching under her as she had looked up, fingers still holding onto the other two with her, and she had thought for a moment that she was unable to let them go.

Her gaze had flashed up and she had seen the woman demon pulling Luke up, and for a moment she stared in horror at the black eyes, an abyss staring back before the woman stepped away into nothing, dragging Luke with her.

She had wanted to scream in frustration and anguish, but found she didn't have it in her to care.

Her family, her pack was dead. Slaughtered. And it was Luke… poor hapless, misguided Luke who had been the catalyst. She had turned away from the spot the pair had stood, looking instead to her friend. She tugged on Lexi, uncoiling stiff fingers from her sister's hands.

"Lex?" she had whispered, pulling her sister up towards her. The younger girl had stirred, blinking up at her.

Nate had then turned to Jethro who had been lying boneless on the ground. Her hands were sticky, drying with blood and she forced herself to ignore that as she leans forwards, listening to his pulse.

It was still there. Beyond that she didn't know, she wasn't a doctor, and never wanted to be one. She had looked up instead towards the sky, as if pleading for help, and the stars above her were all different.

She didn't know where she was, but there was something wrong with Jethro and she had to look after Lexi because they're the last, the last of her pack now.

And she's the alpha. She has to protect them.

"Lexi," she had leaned down so she could meet her sister's eyes. "Lexi, I'll be right back." she says. "I'm going to see where we are, okay? I'm not going far…"

Her sister had nodded, clinging to her and Nate had reluctantly pulled back, standing on stiff muscles and moving away. They had arrived on an outlook point, and she had stumbled towards it, breath catching as she had looked down on the town sprawled beneath her feet.

It hadn't looked familiar. The landscape too was strange, rolling hills that were large, and the forest almost untouched.

It hadn't felt like home though, and it still didn't.

She had realised then that there was still blood on her arms, and she had stumbled down into the woods a little way, dropping besides a stream and rubbing at her arms. She scrubbed at them with her fingernails, shaking and shivering as she tried to remove all evidence of the night's events. It caught under her fingers and she kept washing, convinced that it was still there.

Even now so much later she would look down and think she saw a spot of red. She lets out a bitter laugh, because she doesn't want to be Lady fucking Macbeth in this. She's not a murderer. She's the victim.

It's her life that is ruined.

She had moved back towards Lexi then. It was still light, she realised as well, late around three, maybe four or so in the evening.

Did that mean they had moved time zones completely?

"Nate," Lexi had called to her, "Nate he's… is he dead?"

She had turned back then, to her sister, her responsibility, her last link to control and pack.

Looking back Nate can't quite remember the trip to the hospital fully. She had been so numb. She was cold and numb and some part of her was dead inside.

She was the alpha now. It was a chilling thought. She always knew she would be the alpha one day, and her father had always tried to teach her, prepare her, but she had laughed it off, running away to run in the woods or try to do what normal girls did.

Half the pack had probably been expecting another beta to step up to the task, while the rest were just waiting for her rebellious faze to pass. Now they'd never find out which she would have done.

She was thinking of them in past tense. It made her sick.

Jethro wasn't heavy, draped over her shoulder. She's a werewolf, and he's a human.

Well… sort of human at least.

Regardless he was half draped over her shoulder as she and Lexi headed into town. They peered at road signs, and Lexi was the one who spotted the sign for the hospital and they followed it. The signposts were helpful and convenient, because she had no idea where she was, but she knew it wasn't England, not when they almost got run over by a car, a battered jeep, travelling on the right side of the road. Or the wrong side, depending on your perspective.

It took them a while to get there, and she doesn't remember half of it. She knows at one point though that she stumbled, tired not as much in body, but in mind. She was still trying to cope with everything that's happened, and it was draining, trying not to let the horror just wash over her.

She had stumbled and almost fallen and Lexi darted forwards, taking half of Jethro's weight. It shouldn't have made much difference, but it made her feel lighter, because at least her little sister was still here besides her.

* * *

She's still here, and Nate vows to keep it that way. She won't let her last remaining family member slip through her fingers.

"Are we going to stay here?" Lexi asks.

Nate can't face that question. She can't.

She doesn't know the answer.

"I'm going to visit Jethro," she says, standing abruptly. "You stay here, okay?"

"Nate."

"No." Her tone is laced with command and Lexi stands down almost immediately. "I can't have you getting hurt."

Her sister looks beaten down, but there is still life in her eyes, a need to move on and live, and Nate wishes that she could provide that.

She can't. She's seventeen. Almost eighteen. She doesn't know what to do.

Later she sits beside Jethro in a hospital chair, the cheap plastic digging into her back. It's uncomfortable.

As usual the doctor smiles at her. He's a thin lipped Japanese man, small with hunched over shoulders that make his white coat pool over his chest. He passes by as she sits there, staring at Jethro's lifeless body.

The beat of the heart monitor is steady. He hadn't responded to treatments, and several times had seemingly slipped away so they'd put him on life-support. An IV drips into his arm and there is the slight hiss of the oxygen mask.

She wants to be worried about him, but somehow Jethro has dropped down in priority. She's the alpha now, and she has to protect her sister. The rest of the pack are dead and she has a responsibility now.

Jethro saved them, she reminds herself. But then again there was no guarantee that the demon wouldn't have moved on regardless, ignoring them in the deluge of blood like she had been doing. She seemed to have some deal going with Luke, and had ignored her chance to kill…

"Hello?" Melissa pops her head in at the door and Nate starts, and she wishes she wasn't so jumpy. She also wishes she wasn't so distracted that she hadn't heard the nurse coming. "How are you doing?"

Nate nods, short and jerkily. If she starts talking she knows she's going to be bombarded by questions so she stays silent.

Melissa casts a glance at Jethro lying pale and still, his hair dark against pale skin. "It's been three weeks," she starts, and Nate doesn't really want to hear what she has to say, but she doesn't want to be rude and leave again, abruptly, so she stays, and stares at the floor. "If he remains in a coma," Melissa slips in, closing the door and moving over to the end of the bed. "There are some long term issues that you have to be aware of. Issues such as muscle atrophy, caused by disuse. We're been exercising his muscles gently…" she stops and crouches down, so that Nate's field of vision is taken up by the nurse. "Usually we give people the facts," Melissa points out, "That if they don't wake after so long they're never going to wake. But with Jethro… we don't know what's wrong with him."

Nate swallows, "So will he wake up?" she asks.

The nurse glances down and then meets her gaze steadily. "There is every possibility that he will wake up." Melissa takes her hand, and for a moment it's warm and reassuring, motherly and everything she needs.

But she hears the words unsaid and she jerks her hand back.

"I'm sorry." Melissa says quietly, and stands to leave.

Because as much chance there is of Jethro waking, there is every chance he won't.

* * *

She's losing Nate.

Lexi can see it. Her sister suddenly has the weight of the world on her shoulders and she's breaking.

She prays that her sister can make to through and then stops, because she doesn't know who she's praying to.

Werewolves don't go to heaven, her mother had told her.

The angels wouldn't answer her prayers, and nobody helped when her family was being slaughtered.

There is nobody for her to pray to and so she stops and instead watches and observes in silence as her sister grows more and more distant from her. She is almost convinced that Jethro is going to die on them, Lexi can hear it in her voice every time she asks how he is.

"He'll wake up," she will tell her, but it sounds more like Nate is trying to convince herself than Lexi.

Jethro might fade away, and then he'd be just another person to die on them. He'd die and leave them in a strange country, with no conceivable way of getting back. She thinks with sadness of her home, the clearing in the hills, her room, her friends, her school.

She never thought she'd miss school.

For a moment the homesickness is overwhelming and she wants to crawl to her sister and curl up next to her.

But Nate isn't there. She's breaking into homes, stealing money, trying to keep them living.

Jethro is though.

Lexi considers her options for a moment, before standing. She scrawls a note to Nate, to stop her sister worrying, and leaves it in plain view, somewhere easy to spot.

Then she leaves the second floor room they had been staying in. It's cold out, and the weather here is all strange to her. There are no rolling clouds in the sky like back home, just an never moving mass of grey hanging over the one side of town. It wasn't that wet either, she muses, kicking a dry leaf along the pavement.

They call them sidewalks here, she reminds herself, and wonders if she could get used to living here.

She navigates her way around the hospital with ease. It stinks of antiseptics and disease, and worst of all is the scent of clean blood. She'd never have thought that blood could be clean, but there is something about the stench of medicines that gives the rusty metallic tang a soapy, clean smell.

It makes her uneasy and her head spins. It is with relief that she slips into Jethro's room. The lights are dim, because it's not exactly like anybody needs them on. The scent of her sister lingers in the chair where she must have visited earlier, but it's already fading, and she probably left just over an hour ago.

Nate's going to kill her when she finds out that Lexi snuck out, but the young girl doesn't care. She lingers instead awkwardly and looks at Jethro, pale and still.

He looks dead, if not for the reassuring beat of the heart monitor. She reaches out and grasps one of his hands. His skin is cool. She's been expecting it to be icy cold and clammy, but she can feel the faint pulse of blood under the skin.

Lexi slips into the chair and sits there, examining the boy's sleeping face. She cradles her hand to her cheek, and rests her head on the edge of the bed. There is a faint flush of green that traces through one of his veins, but Lexi doesn't notice.

Nate might be beginning to doubt Jethro's survival, but Lexi knows he is going to wake. He saved their lives, and the hero always lives, right?

It's suddenly too cramped in the small room. She is plagued by the thought that maybe, just maybe, life isn't quite a fairy tale. She's realised that already, but she'd still been hoping for her happy ending.

She pulls back, standing suddenly. She shakes her head, dizzy all of a sudden, and stumbles towards the door.

Once outside the flare of the hospital lights blind her into squinting. The world spins and she takes a breath, her vision blotching slightly. There isn't enough air and she feels faint.

She begins walking along the corridor, back and forth and gradually her heart slows and she shivers, relaxing slightly. The hospital is still sterile to her, and beneath it there is the sense of worry and distress, covering over the scent of disease and injury.

Her eyes flutter closed, and she wonders what the time is. She used to be able to tell to the exact minute, but the time zone shift is still getting to her, even after almost a month over here.

There is a muffled scream from the room she is standing next to and she opens her eyes, only mildly curious. She's in a hospital after all, and the patients moan in pain all the time.

She steps forwards, ducking her head and peering through the window. There is a gap in the blinds, and she looks through the beige fabric. The nice Japanese doctor is in there, leaning over a patient. He's grinning, looking happy about something. The patient is a middle-aged man who is pressing himself down onto the bed, and thought his mouth moves, Lexi, for all her super hearing, can't hear what he is saying.

That is, she realises, because he can't breathe. He gasps as if drowning.

"It's okay," the doctor reassures him, perching on the edge of the bed and leaning over. The lights flicker. His hand presses down on the patient's mouth.

Lexi squints, and one moment it's dark, the next it is light and the doctor's eyes are white, as if rolled back in his head, and then there is another flicker.

Dark. Light. She blinks and the doctor's eyes are normal again.

The patient moans, but it's muffled by the hand pressed over it. He struggles slightly on the operating table, and the doctor presses a free hand to his lips.

"Shhh," he hums, and the lights flicker again. "It will hurt less if you don't struggle," the doctor says calmly, and beneath him the patient writhes.

Dark. Light. The room is empty.

Lexi blinks, startled, but the bed is newly made and there is neither a doctor, not a patient within. She presses so close to the glass that her breath fogs on the transparent surface, but it doesn't change a thing.

Had she just imagined that… or maybe it was the hospital getting to her.

Once again the lights did their little dance, and alarmed suddenly, she backs away, her footsteps sounding loud in the quiet hallway. They quicken, heading back to Jethro and safety, because she must be more exhausted that she thought.

Jethro is lying still on his bed when she returns and she throws herself on there, pressing herself close. She grabs the blankets, cuddling them to her, if only for the mere illusion of safety.

She's still scared. The terror grips her and she clenches her eyes shut, listening to the sound of Jethro's breathing. She's going to have nightmares now. She knows she is.

Yet somehow when she slips off, her dreams are black and dark and draining and she doesn't dream.

She doesn't hear the screams that pierce through the silent hospital either.

* * *

Her sister is a fucking idiot.

Nate barrels, seven stone of pure wolf fury and worry through the hospital.

It's earlier than visiting hours, but by luck Melissa is on a shift and spots her coming.

"Is my sister here?" she demands of the nurse, her eyes blazing and it's all she can do to keep the wolf in check. It's been harder and harder lately, especially after her parent's deaths. Family had been her anchor, and now, with the loss of her family, she held tightly to the only thing she had left.

Said anchorage had gone wandering, and Nate hadn't realised until she had gotten back in at around one in the morning.

"She's sleeping," Melissa hurries along behind her. "I left here there, she looked so tired…"

The door cracks open and neither teenager startles. Lexi is fast asleep, curled up and relaxed on the bed pressed against Jethro. For a moment Nate relaxes at seeing her sister so peaceful for the first time since they'd arrived, plagued neither by nightmares or memories.

"I should…" she swallows down a lump in her throat. "I should get her…" she wants to say home, but the truth is they don't have a home. Instead she wordlessly moves towards the bed, and scoops up Lexi. Her little sister should be heavy, but she's a werewolf, and Lexi is light, at least now while she sleeps. If she were awake she would protest to being carried like this. She's thirteen, and she might still be in year nine, but she's not the young child Nate thinks of her as.

Jethro's head twitches as she scoops away the warm body from besides him. The heart monitor beeps quickly and Nate glances down, not really wanting to see his pale, almost dead looking skin.

Instead it's warm. That's the first surprise. His skin has a warm flush to it that has been missing for days.

The second thing that surprises her is his eyes. Hazel eyes blink open at her, and for a moment they are a vivid neon green before he blinks and they're normal brown again.

Jethro smiles sleepily at her. "Morning Nate," he mutters.

Nate almost drops Lexi in surprise.


	8. Enemy of My Enemy

_If your're reading this just go back a chapter to check you've read that one since this is a double update. This chapter covers the Winchester Brothers, while the previous one looked at the British trio. Next chapter is back to Beacon Hills again though._

_I'm re watching S1 TW and I had forgotten how many times Derek Hale lurks in the corner. It's hilarious because the camera keeps panning over and he's just standing there, scowling with his eyes. I figure I should warn people that as much as I like Derek, he's not going to show up in this fic, because what with the timing, it's easier to write him off to South America with Cora for now. Peter on the other hand, does show up.  
_

_Hope you enjoy! Love to hear any comments and thanks to everyone who has favourited or followed this story! You guys are the best!_

* * *

**CHAPTER 8 - ENEMY OF MY ENEMY**

Crowley is standing outside the bunker smirking at them when they return.

It's been almost a week since they staggered back to the Impala, dirt under their fingernails and identical bloody scars on their arms.

Dean glares at him. Sam has been driving because for the majority of the journey back, Dean had spent it sleeping in the passenger seat. Even as recovered as they were from being buried alive, the blonde had still worn himself out. The older Winchester had complained about all the mud and blood on the upholstery and the consequential cleaning of the car (and recovery from their experience) had taken up most of his time and energy.

He thinks that if Crowley wasn't such a posh and polite demon the guy would be lounging against the bunker wall. He has no idea how the demon found their hideout, but considering he's been stalking them around recently, and Dean has his phone number in his contact list (it thankfully hasn't yet made it to speed dial) it's not as surprising as it should be.

As it is the demon looks far too satisfied with himself. Sam clambers out of the car, stiff muscles protesting. Dean will move his baby later to the garage later, when the Hell King is gone.

"Hello boys." is his usual greeting that he loves to taunt them with. "Bang up job you fellows did," is the greeting they receive instead, snarky and tense at the same time. Dean glares at him and Sam... Sam snaps.

Dean knows that his brother has been twitchy since their failed ambush of Abaddon. There had been annoyance there, but also now Sam suddenly had found his urge to fight again. For whatever reason he wanted in, Dean wasn't really complaining.

He was just relieved to have his brother back. And yeah, he can admit that he screwed up. He knows it, Sam knows it. They also know that it kind of makes them even, and that they're back in this game now, no deals, no backhand mojo, just them, the open road, their bunker...

And a stupid-ass crossroads demon smirking at them

Dean thinks Sam might actually have a good reason to be choking the life out of the smug bastard.

Crowley hits the bunker wall with a thud, Sam's hands clasped in his shirt. He dangles off the floor, and despite this Sam still stands over him by several inches. Now Sam presses close, as if he's going to kiss the guy.

Or kill him, maybe, and Dean moves closer as Crowley opens and closes his mouth spluttering for words. "Shut up," Sam growls, and the words are punctuated with another slam against the wall. "Shut the fuck up. You sent us there to be _used_ in that goddamn ritual!" Sam is almost throttling him, the demon with his feet hanging off the ground by Sam Winchester's giant hands clasped in his suit and tie.

Crowley splutters. Dean's not sure if that's because he's running out of oxygen or if he thinks he has the right to be indignant. Can demons even die from suffocations? "A _trap_? You let _Abaddon_ raise another _demon_! She's got three out already and she just has three more to go!"

"We_ let?_" Sam repeats. His tone isn't even angry, its deathly calm as he repeats the words, "We _let_ Abaddon raise Belial from the pit? So we just _let_ her use our blood, and we just _let_ her and him walk off and leave us buried alive?"

He steps back, fingers uncoiling and Crowley drops. He sprawls in the dirt and Dean can't bring himself to feel any sympathy for him.

"You sent us there to be used in that ritual and you claim we _let _it happen?" Sam snarls.

Crowley stands, brushing off dirt from his jacket. "Well you were the idiots who were stupid enough to let yourself get caught," he grumbles.

Sam punches him. Dean hides his grin behind his hand, because he doesn't think Sam's been this pissed off at anyone for a long time. He had had the horrible kind of disappointed anger with Dean for his deal with Gadreel, but this? This is rage and frustration and Dean is quite happy to stand here and watch his younger brother take it out on Crowley.

"I didn't know!" Crowley holds his bloody nose, "I didn't know she'd use your blood!"

"And the yellow-eyed demon?" Dean demands, "Did you know about that?"

Crowley grows pale, "She was meant to be raising a demon. I didn't know _which_ demon," he sneers, vainly attempting to recover some of his bravado but as Sam leans closer his expression drops again.

"Well congratulations," Sam looks like he wants to kill Crowley with his gaze. Once upon a time he probably could have… well that and a little hand waving. "Thanks to you we've now got Belial, lord of the pit running about."

"Belial?" Crowley squints at them, a little bit of disbelief in his tone, "Please tell me that is not just what you said." and from the expression Crowley wears, that name carries nothing good.

"Yes Belial," Dean stalks forwards now, "You know, the fallen angel?"

Crowley grins and shakes his head, "No. You mutton heads must have been mistaken. All the fallen angels were locked up like Lucifer were. Or thrown into the lake of fire. You can't just let them out, not without blood from..." he stops, and stares in horror at the two brothers who both shift uneasily under his scrutiny. "Well." he considers, "I guess you two did the trick then?"

Sam shakes his head slightly in frustration, "I've had enough of this," he says to Dean, making for the bunker door.

Dean grins at where Crowley looks like he is just beginning to realise the full reach of the new situation they've found themselves in. "This is Team Let's Fuck Everything Up." Dean tells the Hell King. "Welcome to the club."

* * *

"This isn't happening," Crowley appears to be trying to deny it, "She was meant to be raising demons! Not fallen angels from the bottom circles of the pit!"

"Demons being the things that were once human?" Sam asks, "Like you?" Crowley looks offended, but Dean's little brother ignores him, "So there are two types of demons, the other sort being the angels that fell with Lucifer…?"

Crowley nods, "Like Azazel."

Dean and Sam gape at him, but he doesn't appear to notice, taking a seat at the table and half-way to putting his legs up before deciding against it with a hasty glance at the brothers and sitting stiffly instead.

"But he and Belial can't have been angels," Sam protests, "They didn't need to ask permission when possessing someone. Belial didn't, the black smoke just barged into the poor guy!"

Crowley shrugs, spreading out his hands and Dean considers just sticking the Hell King back in their dungeon. "Lucifer got locked up before his grace became too corrupted. But the others? Azazel and Abaddon and the likes… they just went bad. The worse you can get. They tore down human souls and ripped them apart. They themselves were so burnt and their grace turned so black they were in effect demons. Powerful, but still demons. They no longer needed permission."

"Abaddon?" Dean repeats, "She's a fallen angel?" he tries to clarify.

"Do you have to repeat everything I just said?" Crowley leans forwards, elbows planted on the wooden table and Sam slips into the seat opposite him, a grilling face on. Crowley looks slightly disconcerted by the rejuvenated Winchester.

Sam matches Crowley's pose. "Abaddon has black eyes," he points out. "Why doesn't she have yellow eyes?"

Crowley shrugs, "Who knows? Who cares? They're all corrupted angels. Different ranks probably. But come on… you didn't think she was hard to kill, just because she was a Knight, did you?" he glances sideways at Dean.

"So we can't stab her with an angel blade?" Sam asks. "And what about Belial? Would that kill him? We killed Azazel with the Colt!"

"Belial's crawled from a circle further down than Azazel," Crowley leans back, crossing his arms. "You're welcome to try. Ignoring the fact you two idiots let Lucifer destroy the damn thing… Otherwise I think the jawbone's your best bet."

"Yeah, and you're doing a brilliant job at finding that," Dean observes Crowley lazing at their table. He's still considering chucking the demon back into the dungeon, and they might still if Crowley loses sight of the plan and goes off on a bender or something.

Crowley doesn't say anything, and Dean realises that this is because the sneaky eyed demon is watching Sam's reactions, his brother looking uneasy. Sam shifts in contemplation of something and the light reflects off the ragged stitching on his arms. The red-eyed demon's eyes flicker to Dean's own scars.

He whistles, "What did she do?" Crowley sneers. "Crucify you?"

Dean and Sam exchange a dark glance.

"She didn't…" Crowley looks between them, "Well bollocks." he says, "That's…" he stops, and winces.

"Yeah," Dean steps back, "Now if there's nothing more we'd like you to leave. Otherwise you can spend the night downstairs."

The incorrigible demon wiggles his eyebrows, "And whose room will I share?" he looks between them, "Or is Dean's boyfriend around?"

"In iron," Sam adds, and the tone of his voice probably reminds Crowley that Sam had almost throttled the life out of him earlier and he stands sharply.

"Oh and Crowley!" Dean calls after him. "We currently have an advantage. Abaddon thinks we're dead." The British guy pauses, unsure what that means. Dean doesn't want him lingering longer than necessary so he adds darkly, "Try to keep it that way."

Crowley's been the only villain, Dean thinks, that has never really underestimated them.

It probably explains why he's still alive and the rest are all dead.

* * *

"What the hell are you wearing?" Dean demands, staring at his brother. Sam is sitting at the table in the bunker, with books strewn around in Latin and other unfamiliar languages, but all of them about the same topic.

Fallen angels.

"It's a t-shirt." Sam glances down at the dark blue tee, the faded image of a greyhound or whippet standing there.

"I can see that." Dean places a mug of coffee in front of Sam and slips into a seat opposite, sipping his own drink. "But I thought I destroyed that t-shirt with that stupid greyhound on it years ago." he glares at the offending t-shirt.

His brother looks suspicious. "So that's why I keep finding my one shirt in the trash?" Sam demands, voice full of 'I am so fed up with your shit Dean' and a mix of 'you're impossible why do I even hang around with you'.

Dean doesn't even need Sam to clarify the shirt in question. "Dude, it's pink and lined with flowers." he retorts. Sam also has a stupid propensity for wearing it every time they have some sort of emotional moment and there are times he just wishes said shirt would go up in smoke. Maybe if he glares hard enough...

"I like it!" Sam protests.

"It's a lame-ass shirt!" Dean says, his voice final. Sam pouts and cups his coffee, blowing on it to cool it down. Dean glances down at the pile of books. He recognises some of Bobby's texts, that they had moved over from the various storage lockers around the country. They'd also finally gotten around to emptying their dad's storage place at Black Rock, with the cursed items being catalogued and locked away among the various other artefacts in the men of letter's bunker.

It was official. Dean loved their base.

"So have you found anything?" he asks.

Sam glares at him over his mug but shakes his head. With one hand he grabs a pad of paper and throws it at Dean. "Turns out that symbol?" his finger stabs down on the pad, and it wobbles where it is precariously balanced on top of several books, "The one you almost tripped over? Turns out it's Belial's sigil. From what I can gather, Abaddon summoned him from the place he was last on earth."

"How did he get locked up?" Dean skims through the notes, reminding himself to remember several insults to throw at the bastard next time they saw him.

Sam finally takes a long gulp of his coffee. "Angels," he says, sounding both triumphant and frustrated. "They locked him down in hell in one of the circles near the cage."

Dean sighs, "Winged dickheads," he mumbles.

"What?" Sam looks up at him.

"It's always the angels, isn't it?" Dean spreads out his hands, dropping the empty mug in a gap on the table. "Do you think they'll know how to kill the sucker?"

"We have to find the sucker first," Sam reprimands, "And I think we should get some help in."

The older Winchester leans back in his seat, "Cas," he says, heart beating slightly faster.

His little brother gives him a funny look. "Yeah," he says, "I mean… he must have heard of the guy right?"

Dean chews his lip, "I still don't get it. What's Abaddon's plan? According to Crowley she's raising demons… and not just normal demons… fallen angels? So yeah… I think it's time to call in the expert."

* * *

Castiel's number is the second one on his speed dial.

Sam's is the first of course.

The angel doesn't pick up. Dean shakes his head at Sam and then stops as he listens to the voicemail. "Dude," he mouths at Sam, "Who taught Cas how to use a phone?"

Sam hides a smirk behind his precious laptop screen. His head is ducked but Dean knows he is grinning. Dean stuffs his phone back in his pocket. "I think I've got us a case," Sam says, "And everything points to demon signs."

"Oh yeah?" Dean raises one eyebrow. "What is it?"

Sam winces, "A pregnant woman was found dead."

Dean raises one eyebrow, stalking up to his brother, "And?" he asks.

"When they found her, she wasn't pregnant," Sam clicks on something, and Dean leans over staring at the screen, "Autopsy reports show no incision or any sign of early labour. One minute she's alive and pregnant. The next, she's dead and the baby is MIA."

The blonde levers himself up using the back of the chair. His arm gives a twinge of pain and gives slightly, and he lets go so he doesn't fall on Sam. He acts as if nothing just happened, but Sam gives him an odd look regardless. "We should check it out," he says. "Do y'want me to keep phoning Cas?"

"Leave a voice mail," Sam suggests, site searching for a while.

Dean scoffs, "I would but I don't think he knows how to check his messages."

The steady clicking of Sam's laptop pauses, "This is odd…" he says, pulling up a window. "I forgot I bookmarked this… There's this town in California that's had a state of animal attacks recently."

The blonde steps back, and with a sigh begins heading towards the various books and research materials, "One thing at a time Sammy," he shouts over his shoulder, "And weird animal attacks can wait until later."

"But some of them coincide almost perfectly with the full moon," Sam mumbles, but he closes the window with a sigh, chair scraping as he pushes it out and follows Dean for some background reading into baby killers.

* * *

"Where the hell are you two going? You're half dead and you're hunting?"

The car swerves violently as Crowley materialises in the back seat. "Get out of my car!" Dean snaps, straightening the steering wheel and slowing down. Behind him a van driver makes an angry gesture but he ignores it, swerving to the side of the road.

The demon doesn't look unnerved. Without even a sound (in that regard Dean is grateful to the angels for their flapping wing noises) the demon vanishes out of existence. He reappears outside the car, casting a shadow over the door as he leans over and waves in the window as the engine splutter to silence.

Dean opens the car door abruptly, forcing Crowley to step back before the door slams into his head. Dean wishes he hadn't just so he could have had an excuse to give the not-quite-Hell-King a concussion. "What do you want?" Dean grinds out, because working with a demon was really beginning to grate on his nerves.

Sam has the demon killing knife visible in his hand as he steps around the car. "We can still hunt. We think we've got a lead on a demon."

"Which one?" Crowley's head turns between them.

Sam shrugs. "Does it matter? It could be nothing or it could be something big. Either way we're not going to sit around a lick at our wounds. Nor are we going to hide away."

Crowley squints at them, "That's the thing I don't get about you Winchesters. You're always so prepared to throw yourself in the firing line. Let me remind you that last week you were crucified by one of the demons in question and then buried alive?"

Dean shrugs, "That was two weeks ago," he says, "Thursday as well. Nothing good ever happens on a Thursday. At least it wasn't Tuesday."

He ignores Sam's bitch face for referencing Gabriel so blatantly, but Crowley just shakes his head.

"Listen, as much as I hate to say it, you two mutton-heads are the only support I've got to take down Abaddon."

"Enemy of my enemy sort of thing?" Sam asks, leaning slightly on the bonnet. "Like with killing Lucifer? Which didn't work. Like looking for Purgatory. Which is all on you by the way. And like with Dick Roman? Then you screwed us over." he doesn't sound impressed, "Excuse me if you're not exactly the top of our Christmas card list." Sam's stare at Crowley is deadly, and Dean feels a pang of guilt, because he knows Sam feels violated. Crowley possessed him after all, if only briefly.

"So how about we track down these demons," Dean throws out there, "And you get us the First Blade to kill the damn things."

"It's not that simple," Crowley grimaces. "See I've… uh… I've got the halo patrol on my back."

Dean throws his head back to the sky, because now if it isn't demons it's the goddamn angels. He hopes Metatron knows what he did by throwing the guys out of heaven. The Fall had caused nothing but more problems.

"And you came to us why exactly?" Sam crosses his arms.

Crowley offers a narrowed eyed look, "You're the Winchesters," he says the word as if it's a curse, "Hell's scared of you and Heaven doesn't want anything to do with you."

Dean raises his eyebrows, "Hell's scared of us?" he repeats, "Are you scared of us?" you can hear the smile in his words.

The Crossroads King looks put out, "Will you two self-absorbed idiots get your heads out of your asses for one second, and help me?"

"I don't know," Sam shakes his head, "It's not every day the King of Hell asks us for help." his tone is patronising.

Crowley looks scattered, Dean realises. He's lost any security he had in Hell, and he's running scared. Abaddon's demons are out for his blood.

"What exactly do you want us to do?" Dean asks, stepping forwards, "Because there isn't exactly much we can do against angels."

"No? But there's something else you might be interested in." Crowley leans forwards, "Because the angels fells from Heaven right? Your little boyfriend screwed everything up." he directs this towards Dean and he wishes everybody would stop calling Cas his 'boyfriend'.

"Metatron tricked him," Sam defends the angel, and Dean wonders what the pair got up to while he was hanging around with Cain. The mark on his arm itches at the thought. "There was a spell and Castiel was a victim in it, as much as all the other angels were."

"The angels think there's a way to undo it," Crowley tells them.

"You said there wasn't." Dean shakes his head, "There wasn't a way."

"There isn't," the demon doesn't look deterred, "But they think there is. They think if they find one of the ingredients and destroy it, the spell will break."

"Ingredients?" Dean asks.

At the same time Sam begins listing them from where he probably had them memorised. "Heart of a Nephilim. Bow of a Cupid…" he stops, eyes wide.

Dean's throat is dry, "Grace of an angel."

* * *

"How the hell do you know we can trust Crowley?" Sam challenges Dean as the Impala hurtles down the highway. "He could be wanting us to do something else entirely, using us…"

"Because this is Cas we're talking about." Dean snarls, "Cas' grace. And if those bastards do find it and destroy it then he's gonna have to live with borrowed mojo forever."

"And?" Sam leans forwards slightly, "People live with heart transplants."

"Don't…" Dean takes one hand off the wheel to threaten Sam, "Don't compare Castiel's grace to a heart transplant."

Sam raises one eyebrow and thankfully doesn't comment. "How do we know this even is his grace?" he asks, "So Crowley's found this energy signature that the angels are interested in. It could be anything!"

"There's a chance," Dean shrugs, staring resolutely down the road ahead.

"I thought Metatron stole his grace. Doesn't it make more sense that Metatron would still have it?" Sam's playing Devil's Advocate here, and Dean thinks that there is something strangely appropriate about that.

"Look, we've got a case. Giant energy signature that matches grace. And the angels are interested in it. And you know who else will be interested in it? Demons. And where we'll find demons, we'll find Abaddon, and where we find Abaddon, we find Belial and all the rest of those fallen bastards she's summoning."

Dean's logic is sound, and Sam sighs, phone in his one hand as his call to Castiel fails. "He's still not answering," he says, finger scrolling across the screen.

"Dammit," Dean clenches his jaw. He wants to pray, but even that has no guarantee of a reply. He knows that now.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam's voice is low, worried, and Dean glances sideways at him.

"What?" he asks.

"I think…" Sam is staring at something on his phone and Dean peers over for a few seconds before looking back to the road, trying not to run over a passing pedestrian. Sam's browsing the internet about the place they're heading to, and he's pulled up a page on something.

Avoiding the pedestrian Dean glances over again. It's the weather report. "So… sunny with expected showers?" he asks.

Wordlessly Sam turns the phone to face Dean.

"Freak lightning storms." he answers and Dean can see the image on the screen, of a little grey cloud, with a sharp slash of yellow lightning underneath it.

"Well crap."


	9. Ghost

**CHAPTER 9 - GHOST**

"Her name is Theresa Moore," Chris tells his daughter. Allison looks up, brown hair falling into her eyes and she brushes it out, staring at him. She has the same eyes as her mother, Chris notices suddenly, and so he looks away, unable to meet his daughter's gaze.

"Come again?" Allison asks, and her gaze keeps drifting to something over his shoulder, behind him in their apartment. Chris glances around to where she is looking, but there is nothing there. His fingers twitch for a gun, but it's not like it's going to do much good. Whatever his daughter is seeing is already dead. He had grown up training to kill monsters. The Argent family specialised in shape shifters and everything else had sort of fallen by the wayside.

He probably had a few contacts he could phone up. Someone somewhere must specialise in ghosts.

"The girl," he clarifies, straightening. "The drowned girl. One month ago, Theresa Moore was reported missing. Her body was found two days later downriver, and the cause of death was reportedly drowning."

"One month ago," Allison repeats, and then makes a lunge towards a calendar. "The full moon?" she asks, and her fingers rest on the date.

Chris swallows and looks down at where a small clear circle sits on the date under Allison's finger. She's right, and he could kick himself for not noticing sooner. Then he worries, because of course Allison knows when the full moon is, her ex-boyfriend is a werewolf, and the way things are going there is a high chance her current boyfriend is going to be one too. "That's an awful coincidence," he tells her.

A short sharp shake of her head denies it, "Scott and Isaac aren't in the habit of drowning children." her tone is icy, and she is both angry and slightly hurt by his attempt to link the drowning to her friends. "And Stiles was with them. Most of the night."

"I wasn't accusing them of anything," Chris placates her. Allison has inherited both her mother's spirit but also his own hunting skills and that small ounce of hesitation. At times it made her weak, and her hands would tremble and the arrow would fly off and miss the target, but most of the time Chris was glad she had it.

It gave her something that neither he nor Victoria or Gerard could ever teach her.

It gave her mercy.

* * *

It's hard to tell how freaked out her dad is. Chris Argent takes everything she says with his usual stoic expression, but she knows he must be worried. Allison also knows that the next step is leaving, and she won't let it come to that. She retreats to her room, to think things through before phoning Lydia or possibly even Scott, since once again this involves all of them.

"Anything?" Isaac sits on her bed and she doesn't even know why she's surprised that he's there.

"Did you climb in the window?" she says, and her hand drops from the knife blade at the small of her back, letting her shirt fall down over it. His eyes flicker to her hand and then back to her face.

The beta looks unconcerned, shrugging, and his legs swing back and forth. "It was open." he tells her.

She shakes her head, "You know," she muses, pursing her lips, "If anybody were to see you… they'd start thinking we were together or something." Her tone is light, and her eyes drift around the room. "And we wouldn't want that."

"Wouldn't we?" Isaac grins, and in one fluid movement he stands, closing the distance between them and resting his hands lightly on her waist. His head is bowed down towards her, and it would be so easy to just reach up and kiss him.

She looks down, hiding a smirk. Just for a moment, she lets herself forget about the ghosts and her hand comes up to trail along his shoulder, and then she splays her palm against his chest, listening to the reassuring heartbeat, a beat faster than normal humans.

Her eyes flicker up to look at him, blue eyes on her, and she catches sight of her bare arm, resting on his t-shirt.

She pulls back so suddenly she almost falls over and Isaac reaches out to steady her. She draws away, and stares down at her arm. The black lettering blurs and is indistinct, but it's there. She turns her right hand over and it's still there, like a black tattoo on her skin.

"Allison?" Isaac's voice is hurt as she steps back, quick, short steps to the backroom down the hall. He steps out of the bedroom, following her a little way.

"I'll uh… I'll be right back," she calls over her shoulder to him.

He steps after her, then stops when the bathroom door slams behind her. She twists the lock, and on her left arm black signs and lettering bleeds into the skin. She blinks and it's still there, the writing on her skin. She wants to tell someone, Isaac or her dad, but judging by his reaction he hadn't seen it, they couldn't see it.

Nobody can see what she can see.

Spinning around she stands in front of the tap, and she twists the taps on, sticking her hands underneath.

The black sigils that cover her arms are bleeding, blurring and indistinct and she scrubs at them. They're not there, and a part of her knows that, but another part wants the damn things off her.

She scrubs at one arm, fingers clawing at the skin, and it does nothing. The sigils stay like black tattoos that she doesn't remember getting. Her breath catches, short and sharp in her throat as she turns the tap on fully, water splashing down onto her, scalding hot and freezing cold and she doesn't care. The mirror in front of her begins to steam, and she can see herself, pale and desperate and slightly hysterical, and with black lettering slowly seeping into her skin like tears.

She makes a grab for the soap but it slips from her fingers. With a curse she ducks down to get it and when she stands again Kate Argent stares back at her from the mirror.

"Oh honey," Kate drawls, and the smile probably should be reassuring, but it's not. "You poor, poor thing."

She flinches, and spins around but the room is empty.

"I thought you were stronger than this," Kate whispers over her shoulder and Allison dreads what she will find, but Kate's blue eyes stare out at her from the bathroom mirror like some twisted horror movie. There is a flicker and the ghost shimmers, and for a moment Allison can see burnt skin, peeling and broken, the blood and muscles scarlet red with white bone beneath before her aunt smiles, whole once again.

"Go away," she whispers, stepping backwards. She reaches for the knife at her back, fully prepared to drive it into the mirror, to shatter the reflection.

It's at that moment that she realises she isn't there, reflected in the mirror. It's just Kate with her smile and fire dancing in her eyes.

"I killed them all. I burned that house to the ground. Does that make me a murderer?" her aunt reaches out with a pale hand. "What does that make you?"

"No," Allison shakes her head, taking another step back. "No."

"Don't you see?" Kate is emphatic, passionate about something Allison can't even see anymore, "We're the same, you and I! We're the same."

Allison's voice is almost a sob, but it remains strong, and defiant. "We are nothing alike," she shakes her head, "Now get the hell out of my mirror."

Kate just smiles. Her form flickers like static and the fire that is reflected in her eyes is suddenly around her, and the mirror reflects a burning room with Kate smiling in the middle of it. It licks at her aunt's skin, greedy fingers clawing at the flesh and burning it black. The smell of burnt flesh permeates the air. Kate reaches out again, and as she does her hair bursts into flames, and her skin begins to melt into a pasty colour of muscle and bone. "Join me," she whispers, hand reaching right for Allison as the teenager backs away.

Hands clamp down on her arms and she hits something solid behind her. A scream works its way out of her throat, as she finally draws the knife from her back and spins, plunging it straight into the warm body behind her.

Isaac gasps, doubling over slightly and dropping her arms. The knife protrudes from his stomach, and his hand press against the wound, as the beta bites his lips to stop himself crying out. Allison drops her hands away startled, and terrified as he wordlessly gapes at her.

He steps back, wincing and Allison's hands fly to her mouth. "Oh God," she chokes out, and she presses one hand to the wound immediately, "Oh my god… I'm so sorry…" she pulls the knife out without warning and he lets out another sharp gasp, knees bending over slightly as if he might sink to the floor at any second, but at least now it can heal. His fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt.

He grits his teeth. "Is this going to be a thing?" he asks, pressing two hands to his stomach, the white shirt already red with blood. "Because so far I'm not a fan." his face is twisted and Allison blabbers apologies to him. She can see the skin knitting back together quickly, but it doesn't change the fact that she could have killed him.

Maybe this is why she only has relationships with werewolves. She'd kill anyone else.

"I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," she reiterates and Isaac takes his hands away from his healing would to rest on her shoulders. He doesn't draw her close, just stabilises her, supports her, and that's all she needs.

Her hands and arms are back to normal, and when she looks in the mirror there is nothing but her own pale reflection. The sink is overflowing with water and she lets it, because water puts out fire and in some part of her mind she wants that security.

Later when Chris finds the bathroom mirror covered up he doesn't question it.

* * *

The street is as busy as one would expect for a Monday afternoon. Some school kids bustle past, chatter filling the air, but Lydia ignores them, her attention focussed on her friend.

It's the Nemeton. It's always going to be that goddamn tree now. She had thought that drawing it had been bad enough, but now the three who had died to forge a connection with it were tethered to something far darker and far more dangerous.

Stiles is staring at a ghost. He stands there lounging on the pavement, hands in the pockets of that stupid hoodie he wears and looking at something off to the side, head tilted as if listening to something

It's eerie, because ever since Peter bit her she's been the one seeing things. She's been the one hallucinating Peter, hearing the voices, finding the dead bodies. To have someone else zone out on her now… she feels almost jealous but it's not because she misses being the one in the focus, it's because she has no idea of how to help. Stiles and Allison had always known how to calm her down and get her talking, but this…? Lydia can't even see the damn thing.

And that's what frightens her the most.

Despite her banshee powers Lydia can't see it.

The thing is Lydia knows it's there. She knows that as certainly as she knows she loved Jackson, but that she doesn't anymore. As certainly as she knows that even though Scott hasn't said anything, she is pack. She, and Allison and Stiles (even Isaac) are all part of Scott's pack, whether he realises it or not.

And she knows there is something standing a little way off along the sidewalk. The other citizens run around that spot unconsciously, and Stiles stares straight towards it, listening.

"Hey," she snaps her fingers in his face and he blinks. "Eyes on me, because as hot as that ghost chick is? I'm hotter," and usually Stiles would be staring at her fully by now, but his gaze keeps wondering.

For the millionth time Lydia wonders if Stiles is bisexual and the ghost guy is hot.

"I-uh, sorry what were you saying?" he shakes his head.

"Really?" Scott approaches from behind lugging the bags. Lydia had originally dropped them with Stiles but somehow the super strong alpha had ended up with them. Despite the various books and protective paraphernalia they had found, Scott didn't even break a sweat carrying them.

Huh. Lydia should take him shopping more often.

"Since when…" Scott stops besides them, "When were you not hanging on her every word?"

"Shhh," Stiles' gaze drifts past her again, "Mr Harris is giving chemistry advice."

Scott startles, "Mr Harris? Our chemistry teacher?"

"No, the homeless dude on the estate. What other freaking Mr Harris do you know?" Stiles snaps.

"How come you get all the interesting ghosts?" Scott asks, looking fed up.

Stiles looks around towards Scott, and for a moment his face is raw emotion. Lydia realises suddenly, that despite the various ghosts that Stiles has parading around, he has seen everyone but the one he probably really wants to see.

"You call Matt interesting?" Stiles retorts. "He only went away went I threw a salt and vinegar curly fry at him. I don't know what it was about ready salted curly fries, but he was gone. He hasn't come back. In my opinion it was a waste of a good fry."

"So ghosts are allergic to potatoes," Lydia shakes her head in resignation.

"Or maybe starchy carbohydrates?" Stiles keeps up with her joke. She flicks him gently on the arm, and for a moment something echoes.

She blinks.

"Hey Lydia?" Stiles asks her, "Are you okay?"

"No." she admits it, because it's true, and she grabs onto Stiles arm.

She is prepared for the noise but even so it's overwhelming. The whispers drone on, layered over each other so that it is impossible to make out what is being said.

"Woah… Lydia?" Stiles doesn't pull away and she's grateful for that.

"Mr Harris?" she asks, "Where is he?"

Stiles wordlessly points behind her while Scott looks on confused. She hears the chemistry teacher before she sees him.

"Entropy Stiles! What did I tell you about entropy!?" Their chemistry teacher is the same as when she had last seen him.

She's thankful for that, because she doesn't know what she would do if he was dead. Thankfully he isn't garrotted to a tree. There isn't even a blood gash or claw marks on his body. His glasses perch on the end of his nose and he glares at Stiles. Lydia's hand trembles and she tightens her grip on her friend. Right now Stiles is acting as a conduit, and she's tuning into what he's hearing and seeing. If the link is broken it will all vanish again.

"Can you… can you see him?" Scott asks, and he looks around.

"Only when I'm touching Stiles." she says, quietly. "Why's he talking about entropy?"

Stiles shakes his head, "I don't know. He won't shut up about it. I tried to bribe him for test answers but he keeps going on about gases and solids and…"

"Entropy!" Harris barks, "What. Is. It?"

"A state of disorder." Lydia replies.

He grins at her, "You are so much brighter than you look," he says it like an insult and she ignores it. "Entropy. Disorder. Chaos. And what happens when you add in more variables?"

"Disorder increases." Stiles answers, breathing heavily.

Mr Harris' form flickers and waves before blurring out of sight entirely. Lydia drops Stiles hand. "What did he mean?" she turns to Stiles. He's not looking at her, he's looking past her again, face frozen mid answer.

A chill runs down her back.

Someone screams.

It takes her longer than it should to realise it's her.

* * *

Scott covers his ears, and Lydia's shriek still pierces through him. The bags drop to the ground, contents spilling out but he doesn't worry about it for the moment. Stiles flinches away, and it's alright for him, he doesn't have supersensitive hearing. The werewolf presses down harder to try and not to hear the scream. It's piercing, like a bell and he wonders what the hell prompted it.

She stops as suddenly as she had started, and she is staring at horror in the distance. Stiles is there first, and he grips hold of her shoulder, looking at her eyes. His back arches as he meets her gaze squarely. "Lydia?" he asks, "Lydia what is it?"

She shakes her head mutely. "I… I don't know. I don't know…"

Around them some people are making movement towards them, looking concerned and Scott finally drops his hands from his ears and hushes the pair forwards, "We need to go," he glances around cautiously, "We need to…" his words are broken up by another whine, and for a moment he thinks it's inside his own head. Then Stiles and Lydia look around, and in the distance, the siren wails.

It's an ambulance siren.

He meets his best friend's gaze for several seconds, before they lurch into action, jogging for the jeep. Stiles had parked it on the roadside, just across the street from the bookshops they had been perusing for the last hour. The doors slam and the engine starts up.

The door lock clicks open and Lydia clambers in, "I'm coming too," she says, shoving Scott over and then proceeding to dump the bags onto him.

The car starts up almost as soon as Scott has successfully manoeuvred the small space into the back seat, where Lydia then throws the bags back onto him. Try as he might Scott can't lose the damn things. The books dig into him and he stuffs them in the limited floor space.

"Did you hear something?" Scott demands, the engine roaring over his words.

She just shakes her head numbly. "I don't know," she says, and that's her answer. Scott's not going to get any more out of her.

Scott flies slightly to one side as Stiles drives too fast around the corner. "What do you mean, you don't know?" Stiles asks, and turns to look at her, and Scott really wishes he'd just look at the road instead. "Is someone dead?"

"And what the hell was with you two? Entropy? Did you forget a homework for Mr Harris or something?" Scott feels a bit out of the loop.

Stiles glances over his shoulder, and Scott slides across the seat again and a book hits him on the leg. "He kept going on about entropy. About it being a… state of disorder. Then he reappears behind Lydia when she screams, and he… he looked like Jennifer's other victims. Garrotted and…" his voice is lost in the engine growl but Scott thinks he's probably stopped talking.

* * *

The ambulance is already devoid of the EMT's and paramedics when they finally finish tracing its path. They are all hovering around a small house, with a pretty garden where three dogs run up and down. One barks at the ambulance guys as they emerge from the house, a stretcher being carried out.

Lydia turns away in disgust, and even from here Scott can pick out that sickly smell of death, icy cold and tangy like some sort of cheap fast food.

"It's like roses. Roses and death." someone whispers, and he looks around but there is no-one there.

The police cars are parked outside, and he can see Stiles' father over in the distance talking to the neighbours. Lydia just stands numbly next to him.

"What's the point?" she asks, lips barely moving, but she knows Scott and Stiles can hear her. "What's the point in knowing this sort of stuff if I… if I can't do anything to stop it?"

Stiles reaches out and wraps one arm around her shoulder, and she moves with the gesture, as he draws her into him until her head rests on his chest, shoulders trembling slightly.

Scott stays silent, afraid to admit that he's wondered the same thing sometimes.

* * *

"Is it too much to ask that you three can stay away from mysterious deaths in this town?" Stiles' father asks them. Stiles' head is tilted slightly, resting on Lydia's and he looks up, awkwardly.

"What…?" he asks, trailing off but his dad knows what he means to ask.

"Nothing mysterious." his father pre-empts his words. He runs a hand tiredly through his hair. "The guy died from starvation, and if that's anything supernatural I'll eat my hat."

"Starvation?" Scott repeats.

The sheriff shakes his head sadly, "He just stopped eating. Stopped drinking. He just got weaker and weaker and finally died. We think it was on purpose. You know the weird thing? The guy has three dogs, two cats and a pet bird, and they all had plenty of food. The cupboards were stacked with bags of food for them, enough to last a month. Must have loved them a lot to keep them alive over himself."

Stiles thinks, and not for the first time, that his father looks tired. Guilt claws at his stomach, because he had been planning on telling his dad about the ghosts, he'd promise after all… but he just couldn't put the extra burden on him. Not now.

"At least the man's at peace now," the Sheriff gives them a weak smile that looks for like a grimace.

And Stiles' fingers tighten where his one arm is wrapped around Lydia, and he doesn't want to break his dad's last illusion of normalcy.

Because the people who die aren't at peace. Not anymore.


	10. Fallout

_At this point the two sides of the Beacon Hills plot begins to blur together. Usually I then try to alternate between Sam and Dean and Beacon Hills. Sam and Dean don't really show up here for a while, since they're busy chasing other leads. It's totally worth the wait though (at least I hope it will be). So if anyone if reading, I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

**CHAPTER 10 - FALLOUT**

Jethro taps out a rhythm on his thigh, impatiently waiting for Nate to get a move on. He can see her outside his room at the hospital, deep in discussion with the nurse.

Lexi is curled up in the visitors chair. "Are you okay?" he asks her again, taking in the dark shadows under her eyes and the way her head keeps drooping down.

She yawns, and it's kind of cute. He grins. "I couldn't sleep," she answers him, her words slurring together, "I think I had a nightmare but…" she blinks, train of thought lost.

"But what?" Jethro presses, leaning towards her and then wincing, because a month of hospitalisation has done him no good. The nurse had thrown around words such as 'atrophy' and 'shortened muscles' and he'd ignored most of it, and the rest had flown over his head.

The blonde yawns again, blinking sleepily, "But what?" she frowns at him, "I didn't sleep well. Had a weird dream." she curls up into a slightly tighter ball like a young puppy (or wolf cub he muses) and she looks like she's going to drop off again at any minute.

In comparison Jethro feels revitalised, like he could run a marathon, if only his body agreed with his mind.

"Good news," Nate bursts through the door, "We can get you out of here." Her tone is short, snappy almost. She doesn't look at Jethro once as she glances around, head ducking slightly to check there is no-one outside. "Melissa isn't asking questions and she's managed to forge the insurance papers. Although why she wants to aid some teenage British runaways I don't know, but I'm not going to question it."

Jethro shifts slightly, the sheets creased uncomfortably beneath him. "Look, Nate…" he begins.

She shuts him down before he can even begin to work up to an apology. She doesn't want to hear it, and so he falls silent.

He has no idea how they ended up in America. The last thing he remembered was the demon laughing, her eyes black and Luke dangling like a puppet from his hands, and then there was power burning through him.

It had come like a squall of rain, quick and violent, events so much a blur that he couldn't remember them. Then it had gone and he had been so, so drained, and that was about where his memories stopped.

"I think I've managed to find us somewhere to crash," Nate continues, ignoring him. "We've been staying in a motel on the edge of town, but there's this abandoned warehouse that's been converted into some sort of apartment. It's empty, and nothing has been there for months."

"Nate…" he tries again.

"There's a local pack," she adds in, "Lexi scented them. So we're going to keep our heads low, got it? We stay low, blend in, and then try and work up enough money to get us back to England."

Jethro wants to tell her how there is nothing for him, back across the ocean. And he also can hear the pleading in her voice, telling him that she still expects him to be able to magically pick them up and deposit them back in England.

He can't. She had demanded that he took them back shortly after he awoke and he had numbly shaken his head.

He doesn't know how.

* * *

Lexi wakes in the new apartment.

At least… she thinks that's what it is. It's an empty building, bricked on the outside and the most unfriendly place she's ever seen. The inside is bare brick walls, and the wiring had issues and kept sparking, as if someone had rigged it to try and electrocute someone on purpose. The main room is empty bar a single table in front of the window, a large glass section that covers almost the whole wall with a balcony outside. There are a few cheap stools, most of which sit unevenly on the concrete floor. In one corner several couches and a bed is shoved, as if someone with really bad tastes and not much money had outfitted the place.

There are stairs on the left side, and they spiral up to what she had discovered was another room with large bookshelves, stacked full of books. Half of them were handwritten, in a spirally scrawl. The subjects jumped from werewolf packs to druids, and that had been the first thing that had tipped the trio off to there being a pack already stationed here.

The second thing had been the howling on the full moon. It was the first full moon since that last, disastrous night where her family had died, and she had been twitchy, eager to run free in the woods and hills that bordered the town like an embracing arm.

The howls had rung out, and despite only being able to hear two wolves, Lexi is sure there are more. No pack would be that small.

The thirteen year old yawns and stretches. Jethro is sitting by the table in front of the arched windows, his wheelchair putting him at an awkward height to the table, but he manages somehow, books and sheets of paper spread all over.

"Where did you get those?" Lexi asks, still feeling drained despite her nap.

Jethro glances up. Lexi remembers the trouble Nate had had, getting him first into a wheelchair that he did not think he needed, and then trying to get the rugged old lift in the corner of the room operating to get him up here. "I found these," he waves several sheaves of paper, "In a box under the bed. Figured I might as well make myself useful."

She leans closer to see, and the books are all about the supernatural. The current one is open on a page of protective symbols and rituals. She can almost smell it in the air, the harsh ozone burn of magic that makes her head spin. Her parents used to have magical protection in their study, to ward against monsters she had never really believed existed before a month ago.

"They're warded," she tells him, "How the hell are you touching it?"

She knows from experience that if someone who isn't meant to be touching the books lays a finger on them it can hurt like anything from a sharp sting, to a full on electrocution. Thankfully she only got a slight static shock, but it taught her at six years old to stay out of her parent's study.

The other worrying question is if the books are magic, then who did they belong to? They had been left here, abandoned… was the person dead or were they planning on coming back?

Jethro flicks the cover of the current tome closed, and his finger traces the signs that look almost like decoration on the cover. The symbol under his finger shimmers as if in a heat wave, a slight wave of green travels up his veins.

"I don't know," Jethro says, and Lexi can hear the lie in his voice.

Her silence challenges him and he swallows.

He glances up at her and she widens her eyes a little, because even if Jethro can get away with lying to her older sister, he can't get away with lying to Lexi. "I can just… feel it." he says, rather pathetically, "I can feel it like… some sort of warm blanket." He strokes the cover, "And it's just like… peeling it off…" his fingers don't move but his veins run green again, so dark they look almost black under his skin. He shrugs, "And then it's gone." and the sharp smell of ozone is barely there now. "It comes back though," he tells her, "The runes recharge or something because I have to drain it again otherwise it shocks me."

His words send a chill down Lexi's spine. His choice of the word 'drain' makes it seem as if he sucks the magical energy right out of the rune. She shifts, suddenly aware of the lethargy in her limbs. She was exhausted, while Jethro looks revitalised, if a bit pale.

What if he had drained her energy? What if that's what he did, and he was some sort of energy draining incubus demon?

She leans away stifling with a yawn and Jethro gazes at her with concern in his brown eyes. She squashes down the thoughts, along with the fear of what creature Jethro could be.

He's still her friend.

That's all she cares about. Nothing will change that.

Even if he is some sort of energy draining incubus demon.

* * *

If school was hard before, it's three times more difficult with Kate humming some unrecognisable song while perched on the kid's desk in front of her. Allison has to keep leaning around her to see the board, and she's beginning to get funny looks from everyone except the usual suspects.

She's feeling guilty that she hasn't yet consulted with Scott, but for now Lydia's shared their news. When not being dragged to crime scenes by Scott and Stiles, who are a bad influence in that regard and seem to be doing that far too often to be healthy, Lydia is helping her translate the bestiary, looking for any mentions of ghosts. The best thing they found was about 'death echoes' mentioned in a paragraph that was actually about elemental spirits, whose murder victims often hung around the places they had died to warn people of the danger.

Currently Kate isn't doing any warning. Allison's hands tighten on her pencil as she tries to fight the urge not to scream or cry or close her eyes and hope this will all go away. She blinks, trying to keep it together, but she's been trying to keep it together for far too long.

When she opens her eyes Kate is gone. She slumps slightly in relief, sprawling across her calculus book. The sums swim before her eyes, and she considers how much she hates algebra, and how she wishes that could be the only thing that she has to worry about.

"Your sums are wrong," her mom's sharp tone makes her jolt upright, almost to attention. "I thought I taught you better." the voice is full of disappointment.

She ducks her head down, hair framing her face, not wanting to look over her shoulder. She can feel cold, icy breath on her shoulders, and a shiver runs through her.

"Allison!" her mom snaps, "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

She turns her head slowly, afraid of what she is going to see. For a moment she sees short red hair and sharp features, and then the image flickers and blurs and the teacher is standing there glaring at her.

"Allison!" the math teacher barks, "Answer the question!"

The pencil in her hand snaps. Her chair scraps back and she grabs her bag and notes, "I'm not feeling well," she throws the excuse at the teacher.

In the room there are about three other sets of scraping chairs that stop abruptly. Allison's pace quickens, relieved that she might have made a partial head start on Lydia, Stiles and Isaac.

She rounds the corner of the corridor and walks straight into Scott. The werewolf seems dazed and surprised to see her as she straightens, brushing her hair out of her eyes, "Sorry," she rushes out, at the same time as him and they stop, awkwardly. "I'm sorry, I wasn't…"

He shakes his head in that cute way of his, "Don't worry. What are you doing out of class?"

It should occur to her to ask him that same question, but instead she answers him. She doesn't even bother lying, because she knows he would be able to tell. She waves one hand around her head as she tells him, "Ghosts." and his expression is one of complete sympathy.

His gaze drift out past her for a moment and then back in, "We need to talk," he tells her, and that line should give out bad vibes, but instead she just agrees.

"This can't go on," she shakes her head, "I can't… I can't deal with seeing my dead family hanging around twenty-four seven."

"Which is why we need to talk." Scott repeats, "Because I don't think that's our only problem."

Her heart sinks, because it's never going to be easy for them, is it?

"I think there's another werewolf pack here."

* * *

"An alpha pack?" Lydia asks.

Isaac shakes his head, "We just caught one scent. It might even be an omega."

The pack huddles together in Allison's apartment. Chris Argent is thankfully absent. Lydia sits curled on the sofa, while Scott paces, because it must help him think or something. Stiles isn't really sure where he stands, poking and prodding at various features of the room. Allison and Isaac are perched on the desk, and the only people missing who could argue they had the right to be there would be the twins and their parents. Considering no-one really wants the twins around, and things are generally better to do (especially if they're illegal) if their parents don't know, it remains just the five of them.

Stiles runs his finger along an ornamental blade on the bookshelf. It's sharp, and he draws his hand back with a hiss, sucking away the blood with a wince. "We should really get a better base," Stiles complains, but is ignored as Allison leans forwards.

"Do you think they have anything to do with the ghosts?" she asks, fingers wrapped together. Stiles notices how Isaac shifts slightly, pressed up against her side by side. He doesn't really care, and he's just thankful the pair aren't as sickly sweet as Allison and Scott had been.

Scott shrugs, "The only way to find out is if we talk to them. We'd have to corner them somewhere."

"They're not going to like that," Stiles sings it out in an up and down rhythm like a song. He draws out the last word and looks around at them. "I mean come on," he says as everyone turns to look at him, "We don't know what they want or how many they are. For all we know they want to kill us all and steal the territory."

Lydia's head spins around to focus on Scott, "Has Derek had problems with rival packs in the past?" she asks.

"Why are you asking me?" Scott's expression is bemused, "Derek doesn't say anything about anything. He just sorta of…" he waves one hand, "Took off…" he finishes weakly.

"Where is Derek anyway?" Allison asks as if she should care, but can't find the emotion to make it sound genuine.

Stiles shrugs, "South America," he answers, remembering the half-garbled text that was Derek Hale meeting technology that he had received. He gets weird looks from the others, who are probably all wondering why he knows and they don't. He ignores their querying faces, because they're incompetents who don't even bother to exchange numbers with the one guy who might have useful information. Other than Deaton, but then that guy seemed to have taken a course in being fucking evasive and cryptic.

That and meeting in the vet's place was really beginning to freak Stiles out. Especially after the last woman who rushed in her Guinea Pig for eating a baby's rattle, a pair of scissors, and an expensive necklace.

People are weird.

"We should get a base," he tells them again, distractedly. Lydia at least hums and nods in agreement, but her head is tilted to one side listening to Allison asking Scott and Isaac about where the other pack might be hanging out.

"We should get a name too," Stiles says, just to see if anyone cares, "I vote for Stiles' Boys."

They're not listening to him. He sighs. For now they'll just have to remain 'The Pack' which at least can be argued is original.

* * *

Scott hates creeping about in the dark. Not just because he knows his mom worries, when she arrives home from work to find both him and Isaac conspicuously absent, but because he knows he's going to be shattered for school tomorrow, werewolf or not. As if Thursdays weren't bad enough already…

He's pretty sure he can bribe Lydia into forging excuses for them. Scott isn't quite sure when the red-head became the girl to fake, lie and sometimes batter her eyelids to get the adults to jump to their wishes, but she did it and she did it well.

The street lights shine down, a harsh yellow glare overhead. He wishes that they could creep around in daylight for a change, because nothing good ever happened in the dark.

He considers his pack for a moment, Isaac with his eyes flaring up like most animal eyes did under bright lights at night, Stiles babbling on enthusiastic to Lydia, who stands pretending to listen with her auburn hair blazing around her shoulders. Allison is bending over, adjusting her bow. He'd been wary in bringing the huntress along, because the other pack might see it as a threat. Still, he'd rather be safe than sorry and with Allison watching their backs, everyone felt safer.

"So I'm on the rooftop sniping?" she asks, straightening and meeting his gaze, as if she had been aware of Scott's eyes on her.

He nods, "Then Lydia and I check out the lower town, while Stiles and Isaac head towards the hills."

The boys look a bit put out by that decision, and so Scott continues talking before Isaac can be a twat or Stiles can launch into a rant.

"We just want to talk to them," he says.

"Which is why," Lydia studiously examines her nails, "We didn't invite the twins."

Scott concedes her point. "Great," he claps his hands together, grinning. Nobody else looks even vaguely happy to be out there, Stiles shivering and Isaac wearing one of his many scarves.

"Dude," Stiles shakes his head, "Your motivational speeches need some work. We're here to stalk out rival wolf packs. Not to treasure hunt."

* * *

The pack is a weird mix of human and werewolf.

Nate watches from the shadows, wary and cautious. Her own pack had humans in it of course, it was inevitable that some wolf or other would fall in love with a human and bring them into a fold. She had never seen before a pack that was actually made up of more humans than wolves.

It is small too, only five people. She slips back into the alleyway as a pair pass her, the girl who looks like she should be on a fashion magazine cover and the alpha. The scent of herbs clings to her skin, and it's a horrible scent that makes her want to hurl but it does its job.

They pass by without even realising she is there.

She's relieved that Lexi and Jethro are safe back at the loft. She doesn't have to worry about them, as long as she knows where they are.

And without worry, without burden, she can be herself for the first time in weeks. Her footsteps are light as she darts after the duo, thrill running in her veins as she follows them on their wild goose chase. She's pretty sure they're searching for her, but there's always the chance they were looking for something else.

Something else stumbles out of a bar in stilettos. The red-head eyes the drunken woman in distaste, and makes some idle comment on her horrible sense of dress style. The remark passes right over the alpha's head, and he continues to hurry forwards.

The red-head doesn't follow. She stares at the woman who is dabbing at her blotched make-up, sobbing with little hitching breathes. She isn't actually at the point of crying, but her hormones and stress levels are through the roof. Even from where she lingers one hundred metres down the road hiding behind a parked car, she can smell the alcohol on the woman's breath.

The red-head teenager hasn't moved. Nate strains her ears for a name, because it's easier than calling her the 'red-head'. Her hair isn't even red, it's more of an auburn brown, in the same way her own hair isn't blonde, and more of a honey brown.

"Scott," the girl calls out, regardless of her name. The alpha turns, wary of the low sound of her voice.

"What is it?" and there is tension in his call, as if he knows she's about to say something terrible. "Lydia?"

Nate doesn't need to hear the reply, because she already knows something is wrong. She should have known this night wasn't going to turn out well, and this has only just confirmed it. She backs away, not planning on sticking around to see how this turns out.

She leaves behind a street where the scent of blood permeates the air and in the background a weak trace of sulphur.

This pack is trouble.

She doesn't want any part of it.

* * *

The street is quiet, permeated only by the occasional sound of traffic in the distance. It's kind of peaceful in a way, but at the same time it's so unnatural that Lydia immediately feels uneasy.

There are so many things she would rather be doing in preference to this, but she could hardly say no considering her position as the regular pack death omen seeker.

It makes her sound like some sort of cheap thrill seeker and she sniffs, eyeing a drunken woman scrub at her make up.

She's a dyed blonde, Lydia notices, because she picks up on things like that. The dress is shorter than even something she'd wear, and obviously the woman had no style to be partying on a Wednesday night. She also clutches no purse, which means that despite escaping whatever bar she had exited from, she'll have to return eventually.

The woman leans over, peering in a nearby shop reflection, and her nails rake down her cheek. She lets out a moan, and Lydia's not sure if it is depression or lust talking.

Scott has moved on down the street but as the woman murmurs something he stops and turns to her. In a few steps he is back at Lydia's side, and she wants to turn to look at him, but the red-head can't turn away from the woman.

"What is it? Lydia?" he asks.

At that moment the drunken woman's fingers twist to become a mockery of claws. Lydia has seen two woman fight before, and usually her mother fights with words and snide comments, but she has seen clenched fists and nails extended to scratch skin. Boys are quite right when they literally call it a catfight. Yet Lydia had never before seen one turn their sharp nails onto themselves before.

The woman's nails are painted red, and so Lydia doesn't notice at first when red stains them an even darker shade. Instead Scott lurches forwards, nostrils flaring.

"What the hell is she doing?" he whispers, then falls silent and as the woman lets out a sob.

And the worst thing is Lydia can hear her. Not just the broken sobs of "Not pretty, not beautiful enough for him," but something else. She can hear it, something forming words, and it echoes in the corners of her mind, but when it comes to her to say them, it dries up, screams from the shadows and her own nails dig into her palms.

"Oh my god," Scott jolts towards the woman after the first claw down her face. Lydia has seen what damage wolf claws could do, and she never quite imagined that human nails could do the same. The nails are long, possibly even fake, for with a snap one breaks, lodging in the skin.

The woman lets out a frustrated half-scream, falling to her knees, her eyes fixed on her reflection in the glass. Her fingers dig in at the forehead and then rake down, the skin stark pale under the pressure, and then blossoming into red scratches. In the few places she has managed to break the skin blood wells up like tears that weep down her face.

She reaches up again for another attempt, still mumbling incoherent words. Scott reaches her and grabs her hands and she screams again, struggling away.

Lydia is frozen in horror, walking stiffly towards where Scott grips the woman's wrists in an almost bruising grip. He has dropped to his knees in front of her and the woman twists her body, trying to see her reflection.

"No!" she screams, wrenching her one hand out of Scott's grip so harshly that Lydia thinks she might snap it, just in her struggle to get away, "No I need to be pretty! Please, let me be pretty!" the free hand reaches up for her face, and before Scott can grab her she has sunk in her nails to her eyes.

Lydia stops, mouth open silently as Scott grabs her hand, pulling it away. The blonde woman looks around wildly, and her one eye is now bloated and red, weeping tears that mix with blood on her face.

"Oh god, please stop," Scott is reassuring her, stopping her from hurting herself more, "Please don't… Lydia!" he calls, "Lydia call 911?"

"And tell them what?" she finds her voice, just in time to be indignant, "Some random woman on the street is trying to claw her own face off?" she hisses. Still she pulls out her phone, because it feels good to do something and she rings Stiles.

The dial tone doesn't start up, and when Lydia looks again the signal is dead. Stupidly not thinking she tries again, but it's still dead. The signal is dead when it should be at least four bars. It's the centre of town, the signal is never dead here.

Scott looks up and once again the woman tries to jerk out of his grip. He grits his teeth, snarling as she struggles in his grasp. It shouldn't be that difficult to keep her down, but she seems as if for all purposes to not care, bucking and writhing, leaning away from his grip as if it is poisonous.

Pounding footsteps send Lydia reeling the same time the woman screams again. Allison appears from whatever high rise she had been staking out, bow in hands.

"Let me go!" the woman screams, lashing out and her elbow clips Scott in the eye, and he lets go startled. It's only for a few seconds, but it's all the woman needs to reach up, nails gauging into the rivulets already carved onto her face.

"Knock her out!" Allison calls, jogging up, "Just knock her out for god's sake!" she skids to a halt next to Lydia, and Scott looks around wildly for a moment unsure of what to do.

The huntress does it. She must have seen their predicament from the rooftops, as she stalks forwards decisively, and sliding her hand through the woman's hair and kneels, at the same time bringing the woman's head crashing down on the pavement.

She goes limp.

* * *

Scott can barely see the blood of the head wound amongst the rest of the blood from the scratch marks down her face. Some are merely puffy, where the nails didn't break the skin, but the one eye is crying tears. He drops her hands and shifts backwards, away from the unknown woman.

"What the hell?" Lydia stands there looking the same way he feels. "I thought we came here to hunt a werewolf pack," she stage-whispers angrily.

Allison stands, and she offers out a helping hand to Scott. He doesn't take it, and Allison doesn't take offense. "She was clawing her eyes out," the huntress observes, curling her lip although whether in disgust or confusion Scott can't tell. Once upon a time Allison used to be an open book to him, but somewhere between then and now the book had been slammed closed.

"She said she wanted to be pretty," Lydia whispers, "She wanted to be pretty…" he head tilts to one side, as if listening to something only she can hear.

Allison bends down to check her pulse, "She's still breathing… one of us should call an ambulance."

Lydia shakes her head, "The signal is gone. It's…" she stops, staring at something over Scott's shoulder. The hair on the back of his neck prickles. "Don't turn around," she whispers, and Scott listens, trying to hear beyond the silence. "There's someone watching us." Lydia's voice drops to a loud whisper and her gaze is frozen, petrified as if turned to stone.

Allison is facing Lydia as well, and she uses her body as a shield to draw her bow up, an arrow already notched in the string. It's one of those fancy ones, and Scott recognises the flare shot. The huntress tightens her grip, her left arm relaxing as she draws back with her right slightly.

"Doing what?" Scott asks, not daring to turn around. If anything he's preparing to cover up his ears before he's deafened by her flare arrow. There are several more in her quiver, in preparation of herding the rival pack if need be, along with some ordinary shafts. It's archaic, shooting werewolves with a bow and arrows, but they can't heal until their pull the shafts out. Bullets on the other hand don't do much damage and even Scott has to agree that a bow is far less illegal (and dangerous) that a gun toting Allison Argent.

"He's… just watching." Lydia stares past him. She barely mouths the words, but Scott hears her clearly.

Evidently Allison does as well because she spins around and in one fluid movement, she sights and lets aim. Her flare flies high along the street and the shadow at the far end doesn't move, as it completes its arc. Scott turns to watch as it flare out, hands on his ears as the man waits, watching them calmly. He's been there a while, Scott can tell from his pose, slouched and relaxed.

Which means he's been watching them since they arrived… he's seen them with the woman and he had done nothing.

The light dies, along with the whining screech that makes Scott's ears ring. He knows that somewhere Stiles and Isaac will hear it, the latter at least, and they'll be on their way here.

The arrow drops into the dark and he can see the figure clearly now, just as clearly at the guy can see them. It's obviously a guy, tall and lanky with wide shoulders that are silhouetted against the spot light for a moment before he steps back into shadow.

"Go," Allison breathes, but Scott's already burst into a run. His form blurs slightly as he moves after the man, werewolf, what-ever monster it is that is stalking his streets in his territory.

It's not far, a couple of hundred metres down the road past parked cars and closed shop windows. The man is out of sight and a snarl builds in his chest as he slows down to skid around the corner of where he disappeared.

He half expects the man to be gone, running as far away as possible but he's not. Scott stops sharply as he sees the dead alleyway, wall at the end and dustbins littered at the side. A small restaurant backs out onto the alley; its doors shut and locked up at two in the morning. At the far end the man stands with his back to them, looking at the wall. He could probably leap that if he was a wolf, but instead he just stands there.

Waiting, Scott realises as Allison catches up, and shortly behind her Lydia, somehow managing to keep up in high heels. The trio don't move from the entrance to the alleyway, because for all they know it's a trap. Allison draws up her bow, breathing heavily as she flanks Scott, while Lydia remains behind him to one side.

"Who are you?" Scott demands.

The man's shoulder's slump, and with great deliberation he turns around. His features are shadows, but his hair is blonde, spiked up and his lips are twisted into a smirk. "Well you've got me," the man turns, an exaggerated sigh. "Watcha goin' to do now?" he spreads out his arms.

"What did you do to that woman?" Scott threatens, stalking forwards. His eyes flash red. Allison's bow string creaks as she draws it back further, arm straining to hold the position.

The man just laughs and he cracks his neck as if preparing for a fight, and then rolls his shoulder. "Think, that's gonna' scare me, dog?" the man sneers and the last word is a deliberate insult. He clicks his tongue, "Aren't you a bit young to be out this late at night…?" he grins, and skips forwards a step and a half. "There could monsters out," he whispers.

"Like you," Allison bites out behind Scott.

"I'm a monster?" The man grins, baring his teeth and his head tilts to one side unnaturally, "Then what does that make you?" he asks, and Scott's throat is dry as the man blinks, and when his eyes open again, they burn, yellow and black mottled together. "I told you there were monsters out."


	11. Grace Burns

_Sam and Dean this chapters, and we get to see an angel, where I have the joy of playing around with nice angel names, and not the typical boring names that the show seems to be sticking to._

* * *

**CHAPTER 11 - GRACE BURNS**

"So what's on today on angel TV central?" Dean kicks open the door to the house they are currently 'staying' at, awkwardly balancing cheap diner food on one arm, while holding two coffees in his hands and still managing to have room for a bag that looks like it holds doughnuts.

Sam cracks his knuckles and leans back against the rotting sofa. On the table in front of him the laptop is open; the screen separated into four separate moving images that regularly shift at times, the cameras giving them an extensive layout of the building the angels had claimed. "Well the one angel learnt how to do a crosswords and taught his friend. Uh… Jael I think, and Ariel."

"The little mermaid?" Dean sniffs, "Huh."

Sam doesn't even bother correcting his brother. Instead he rolls out the aches from his shoulders and leans forwards, peering at the laptop screen. "Beyond that: nothing," he shrugs, and stands as Dean proceeds to trip over a torn piece of carpeting, the coffee tilting dangerously. Sam relieves his brother of his burden, and snatches up his food along with the bag of doughnuts. Dean doesn't notice as he kicks out at the offending piece of material.

"Goddamn it," he curses, "This is why I hate squatting." he complains. Sam doesn't really have a reply so he instead digs into his food. Dean casts one look at the rotting sofa, before probably deciding the germ count was too high for his delicate sensitivities and pulling out their green cool box to perch on.

The older Winchester reaches out one hand and spins the laptop around. Sam tries to protest, but the salad leaves in his mouth make that a challenge as Dean observes the various views of angel headquarters. "We've been here two weeks," he complains, as Sam grabs his laptop back. "And the most interesting thing they've done is the pair who got laid in the elevator."

"I can't believe you watched that." Sam grumbles, swallowing a mouthful.

"Dude. It's free porn." Dean delves into his own food and for a moment the brothers are absorbed in eating. Eventually though Dean swallows and drops the empty napkin into the box. "So this is what we've come to," he sighs, "Stalking out angels."

"At least they were easy to find," Sam comments.

Dean scoffs, "Yeah? All we had to do was find a bunch of stiff suit wearing dudes with silver swords."

"And they all congregated in the nearest religious workplace," Sam adds, "That helped."

The blonde nods, sipping his coffee. "Reckon these angels are part of Bart's faction?"

"Bart?" Sam blinks stupidly for a moment, "The Simpson?"

Dean looks floored and then shakes his head, "Bartholomew. Buddy Boyle? Let your angel in? Remember?"

The brunette nods, "Why do you insist on giving angels nicknames?" he asks, rhetorically. "Anyway, it's all part of the same company, some extensive branch that they've set up across the country. Why? Does that…" he stops at movement on the screen. In the lower right hand corner an angel is leaving the building, determined and focussed. Sam doesn't recognise her, and he'd been tapping into the audio to try and remember all of the various angels and their names. "We've got movement down on Main Street," he says, as Dean leans over, almost overtopping and Sam relents, turning the laptop to face him.

"Where's she going?" Dean asks.

Sam grins. "Wanna' find out?"

* * *

In the crowded street it should be easy to mingle with the masses.

Not when your name is Sam Winchester and you stand at six foot four. He is forced to walk hunched over and examining the ground studiously as if he's picking up change that can be found littering the sidewalk. Next to him Dean manages slightly better, moving determinedly through the crowd and managing to keep an eye on the angel ahead of them. Her hair is a honey-brown, shoulder length and curling at her shoulders. Whatever the vessel had worn previously has been discarded in favour of the typical black suit the angels favoured. Even the style and cut looks the same, and Sam wonders where the angels go to in order to buy clothing.

The crowd hurrying along the sidewalk almost part around her at her fast pace, not stopping for anything. She twists and turns down streets and side streets and at one point Dean pulls up sharply.

"I've lost her," he hisses to Sam in frustration.

"No," Sam spots the brown hair hurrying away, "There she is…" Dean follows his gaze, as she hurries up some steps to a museum of some sort. Banners flutter outside, advertising a travelling exhibition which is visiting the town.

The doors swing shut on her and for a moment they mill about at the bottom of the steps. "I don't get it," Sam says, "If they're looking for an angel's grace… why is she visiting the museum?"

His brother looks clueless, and Sam looks around for anything that could potentially be demonic or angelic. All he sees is the dark clouds that have been sitting over them since their arrival. There is definitely a demon in town, even if there had been no suspicious murders and the few disappearances they had looked into were all runaway teenagers that turned up after a few days.

The banner waves in the breeze, and Sam takes a moment to read it. The exhibition is about King Arthur, and some artefacts are being boasted as having originated all the way from Wales, Britain. Had he still been a kid with wild dreams and a love of knowledge he would have been begging Dean to see it.

"Should we go inside?" Dean looks slightly disgusted by the idea.

"Give it ten minutes," Sam says, "Then we go in."

"And what?" Dean hisses, "It's a public place Sam! Anyway, what were we going to do? Go up to her and ask her if she's seen any demons about lately!?" his voice rises and a passing mother skirts her child around him, shooting Dean a glare.

Sam is suddenly conscious of his surroundings and he drops down a step, putting him and Dean at roughly equal height since Sam grew taller than his older brother at seventeen.

"We don't even know what we're looking for," he tells his brother, "The last grace of an angel we found was meant to be a giant tree, and then it turned out that someone had already bottled it up. For all we know they've already got a little bottle of grace and it's tucked away somewhere!"

Dean looks alarmed by that, as if it is Cas himself locked away somewhere. There are times Sam thinks Dean worries too much for the thousand year old angel. "Come on," the older Winchester spins around. He makes for the door to the museum, "Let's go and talk to this angel. Get some answers that aren't from Crowley."

Sam has to admit that his brother has a point (especially considering they haven't heard from Crowley since he sent them off here), and he opens his mouth to reply, before realising that Dean isn't even there. He's arguing with the guy at the door about "What do you mean we have to pay?" and with a sigh he climbs the remaining steps and pulls out his wallet.

* * *

Once inside, the air is cool and the lighting dim. Fossils and lumps of rock line the walls along with life size models of civil war soldiers and romans. For a moment the brothers mill in the entrance, Dean muttering about robbery while Sam contemplates how they're going to find the angel in this place among so many people.

He's just debating whether it would be worth it attempting to get into the security room to use the CCTV feeds, when Dean elbows him.

"There," he nods towards a side room where the King Arthur exhibit is all set up. The brunette stands staring at a glass case, filled with ornamental cutlery and jugs, her posture unnaturally stiff and awkward.

They stride towards her, and a teenager skips out of their way looking freaked. There are times Sam wishes he was slightly less imposing.

His older brother reaches one hand into his jacket pocket, and Sam knocks into him with his shoulder. Dean casts him a 'what the fuck?' look, and Sam glares back. They're here to talk, not to stab the angel with an angel blade in the middle of a public place.

So instead his hand drops as the pair shift awkwardly for a moment behind the angel. An elderly lady glares at them as she is forced to move around them, and Sam clears his throat. The angel's head shoulder's tense up slightly.

"Sam and Dean Winchester," the angel doesn't turn from where she is diligently reading an exhibition board.

"Uh… hello?" the good thing, Sam thinks, about being famous in Heaven, Hell and Purgatory, is that you never have to introduce yourself. To be honest through he's starting to miss that.

She turns and regards them with wide blue eyes. She's shorter than him (then again most people are) and has to look up to them, but the way she blinks makes it seem as if she is looking down on them. "My name is Amitiel." she greets, "Can I help you with anything?"

Sam swallows, and Dean too, looks more alarmed that the angel doesn't want them dead. He thinks it's more shocking, the peaceful manner of her talk, than it would be if she shouted insults and came after them in the middle of public waving her sword around.

"We just wanted to ask you a few questions," he says gently. "That's all."

"Then ask," she doesn't seem very familiar with humans, and obviously hasn't been down here very often.

"Did it hurt?" Dean interrupts, and takes his opportunity with a wide grin.

Amitiel blinks at him, "Did what hurt?" she asks, earnestly, and slightly worried.

"When you fell from Heaven?" Sam pulls a face and Dean's smile drops, "Okay, sorry that was inappropriate."

Which is just as well became Amitiel look murderous, "My wings burnt," she hisses, "Hundreds of us died!" Her shoulders are stiff as she glares at him, "Heaven is lost to us and my brethren are split, divided! The factions are at each other's throats. The whole place is chaos, especially after Castiel killed Bartholemew." Dean raises his hands placating her, and Sam thinks they really need to catch up with their friend.

"Sorry," Dean says, unable to think of what else to say.

A gaggle of school children pass by, and they fall silent. Amitiel watches them with a soft look in her eyes. "Humanity is beautiful," she whispers, "And we love it, as we were ordered to, but to be thrown down here the way we were…" she stops speaking, and Sam is suddenly reminded that Heaven was their home, and that this was the same as kicking out a kid to fend for themselves. Admittedly most of the kids were millennia old, but still the way they acted sometimes…

"We heard you were looking for something," Sam says, taking charge of the conversation. "The demons are after it too."

"We know," Amitiel isn't impressed by their attempt to help.

"Listen, Amy," Dean's already managed to nickname her, "It's not just demons. Abaddon's been raising fallen angels."

Amy scoffs. "Abaddon is dead," she replies scornfully.

Sam shakes his head, ducking down slightly so he is more her level. "Abaddon is alive," he says earnestly. "And just one month ago we almost got killed Belial."

With one short sharp shake of her head Amy denies it all, "They're dead." she emphasises, "Or locked away. And even if they weren't, Winchester, of what consequence are they to me? Why do you warn me of them? After all the angels you've killed?"

Dean steps back, almost walks into someone and steps forwards again, voice dropping in a loud whisper, "Look," he hisses, "The demons are after the same thing you are. And they'll kill you for it. If you let us help you…"

Sam knows already this isn't going to work. Amitiel looks at them pitying and full of condensation, "And what is it?" she interrupts, "What is it we're meant to be looking for?" her head tilts like a bird, and she blinks.

"You know damn well what!" Dean bursts out, and he receives a few weird looks. He glances about frustrated, and gestures with his hands a little for emphasis, "Look, we want to get you guys back to Heaven and break Metatron's spell just as much as you do, but destroying Cas' grace isn't the way to go!"

"Grace?" she asks them, confusion and shock in her voice, "You think we're…" she stops, and laughs derisively, "We're not looking for grace." she scoffs slightly, shaking her head.

Sam startles, straightening slightly, "You're not?" he asks, "Then… what's the energy signature?"

Amy looks between them, staring long and hard at their faces before telling them, "Stay out of this, Winchesters." she warns, "We don't appreciate or need your help. Not after what you two did to Michael and Lucifer." And she pushes past them, and they let her go. She spins back to them, "And thanks," she adds, "For the warnings about the demons. But we already knew." Then she spins around and stalks out of the room.

Sam can see a security guard eying them warily, and he throws up his hands in frustration, spinning back to his brother. "Great." Dean says. "Just great." he sounds about annoyed as Sam feels. "Well that worked brilliantly."

"I don't get it, though," Sam shrugs, "She said they weren't looking for grace. Does that mean they're wrong, or Crowley is?"

"Which one do we trust more huh?" Dean asks the hard question with no obvious answer.

Sam clenches his fists, spinning slightly on the spot with nervous energy. His gaze alights on the exhibit information Amitiel had been reading. There is a picture of an ornamental chalice on the board.

Sam's breathe catches in his throat.

"Dean, we're not looking for an angel's grace," he whispers.

"Well duh. Amy told us that much at least.

"No…" Sam shakes his head, "We're not looking for grace. We're looking for that." When Dean turns to him he wordlessly points towards the picture.

It takes his brother only a few seconds to realise what Sam has. He whistles.

"Indiana Jones is going to be so jealous."

* * *

Amitiel walks briskly down the street, her shoes clicking on the sidewalk. She is considering what the Winchester's had told her, and then pushes it away flippantly. Nobody wants to be seen working with the Winchesters, unless you want to end up dead or shamed, or forever labelled a rebel without a cause like Castiel.

They treated her like she was a friend, defiling her name and attempting to reason with her like she was a human,.

She isn't.

She turns a corner and pauses. The street ahead of her is full of parked cars and nobody in sight. She's meant to be meeting Jael, to share their news, and she's brimming because after a week of tracking down everything in this city she thinks she's finally found it. The venture Kamael sent her paid off, even if it had warranted an unwelcome meeting with the Winchesters. She's going to have to report they're in town, and the rest of the faction based here are going to have to keep an eye on them.

Jael should be here by now. She glances at her watch for the time, although it's unnecessary. Angels can time keep perfectly and he is never late. Slowly she walks down the street, and invisibly her broken wings uncoil from her shoulders warily. It hurts, and she wants nothing more than to spread them wide and to fly away, but the bones are shattered from the fall, the feathers burnt, and it takes so much energy just to raise them up with the last shred of her grace wrapped around them.

There is a body between two parked cars.

Jael's vessel is empty, and blood pools from a stab wound to the gut. The blood can barely be seen on the black suit, and his body is outlined with the last burn of his grace. There should be wing shadows spread eagled across the parked cars and tarmac, but there isn't enough left of their wings even for that.

Her grace tremors, shivering at something dark and she turns suddenly, preparing to leave.

"Hello Amy." the person standing behind her says, voice rich like dark chocolate and just as bitter.

Her broken wings shudder as she finally sees fully the blackness behind her. The white-blue of her grace trembles.

The vessel behind her is a red-headed woman, and the blackness within her is so dark and overwhelming Amitiel can barely tell who this is, wrapped up inside the host like a cat, languidly curled within a narrow space, sharp claws just waiting to pounce.

"Abaddon," she realises. She's heard stories, all of them have, of the angels who fell with Lucifer. So many died fighting for Heaven and so many more were injured so badly they still bear the scars today.

The Winchesters were right, she thinks, as the red-head smirks at her, looking mildly surprised.

"How nice," the demon drawls, "Were you expecting me?"

Amitiel folds her wings, unconsciously making herself as small as possible, "What do you want?" she asks, taking a step backwards. Her grace flares up in warning and Abaddon just laughs, a hollow sound. It's like some sort of challenge, because she could try to kill her, to burn the demon smoke from the vessel, but it's not going to do much good.

Abaddon isn't just an ordinary demon.

"Nothing you can give me," the fallen says, poison dripping off her words like honey.

Amy should bargain, she should offer up her leaders, her comrades, Sam and Dean Winchester wrapped up on a plate with ribbons… anything to keep her life. "I don't know where it is," she says instead, lying to her last breath, "And even if I did…"

"You wouldn't tell me," Abaddon sighs, "So predictable," she sounds bored, and she draws a blade from the inner pocket of her leather jacket.

Amy startles backwards, curling her tattered wings inwards, "Please…" it slips out and she pulls out her own blade at the same time, "I don't know anything," she reiterates.

The demon presses her lips together in a disappointed smile, "You see that's a shame," she lunges forwards. Blades clashes against blade and with a twist she knocks Amy's sword aside. With a free hand the demon grabs hold of the angel's wrist. Amy's grip shouldn't break so easily, but her sword hand is pinned by the demon, and she can't protect herself when her opponent's weapon in Abaddon's right hand arcs across, cutting through the vessel's flesh and her own grace, and Amy lets out a pained cry.

A quick twist and her sword falls to the floor with a clatter and Abaddon kicks out at her legs. She feels herself knocked over, and the demon grabs hold of her collar to stop her from falling. Amy snarls, pressing her now free hand against the demon's chest and forcing her grace to burn. Beneath her palm she feels the black coils of power, tainted with blood and sulphur. The smoke rolls around unbothered, not even simmered.

"Just can't get it up any more, can you?" Abaddon leans in closely, the silver blade pressed sharply against the gash already made through grace and flesh. It feels like Amy is splitting open, being torn apart by the sharp metal of the sword. She flinches away weakly, "Your wings aren't the only thing that's broken, huh angel?" the fallen smirks, like a predator that has her prey cornered and caught. All she has left to do is feast.

"The museum!" Amy clenches her hand uselessly, struggling away from the black shadows that loom within the body in front of her. "It's at the museum!"

Abaddon just laughs and her eyes flash black. "There," she whispers in Amy's ear. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" The angel blade in Abaddon's hands glints and then with one smooth jerk, she tears the blade right through the torn remains of Amitiel's grace.

Her body falls to the ground, grace blackening around it, without even the shadow of wings around the body to signify what she once was.

* * *

"I don't believe you Sam."

"It makes sense!" Sam pours over the notes he's scrawled down already. "I mean… just think of what an object of such power can do! The angels or demons… if they get their hand on this…"

"But _come on_," Dean paces around the house they are squatting in. "The Holy Grail? Dude I think that's a little extreme, even for us."

"Why not?" Sam shrugs, hands out as he runs through the data in his head, "There's that exhibit that rolled into town three weeks ago. Crowley said that's when the energy signal spiked. He shows up expecting there to be a jawbone blade, and instead he finds angels and demons out on a pissing contest to get an item of value."

"An item of value? You call a cup that men are willing to get their throats torn out by a killer rabbit an item of value?"

Sam pulls a face, "Dude, that's Monty Python. Focus."

"I am focussed! You're saying that the angels aren't looking for Cas' grace, which is good, but that they're looking for an chalice so they can get drunk instead and that's bad?" Dean narrows his eyes at Sam and the younger brother takes his cue to start talking again.

"It might not even be a cup. It could be a dish, or stone, or even a rock. The ideology of it being a cup is modern mostly. A grail is actually a bowl usually made of wood or stone…"

"Sam," Dean sounds fed up of him geeking out over this, but the younger Winchester doesn't stop.

"Over time the idea of a holy grail has been confused with the holy chalice. Some people say it was the cup Jesus drank with at the Last Supper, while others think it was used to collect his life blood at the crucifixion. Then again wine symbolised blood, and blood is wine so they're both really much the same. It's usually associated with a spear that pierced him in the side, called the Bleeding Lance."

"Wait…" Dean interrupts him and Sam obediently stops to catch his breath, "The Lance… wasn't that owned by some guy called Longinus?"

Sam wonders how the hell Dean knows this. "A roman soldier," he confirms. "It's also called the Spear of Destiny."

Dean sits down abruptly. "Fuck." He curses. "That… holy crap…" his jaws works for a little bit.

"What?" Sam frowns, "Dean, get it out man."

"That's at the bunker," his brother tells him. "There is a box, with tonnes of paper crap about this roman guy called Longinus, and there is a wooden stick in that box. A wooden stick, labelled 'the Spear of Destiny'. With capital letters."

Sam gapes at him.

Dean nods. "Yeah. Exactly."


	12. Night of the Hunter

_In which Stiles abides by traffic laws and the two packs continue on their course which is inevitably going to end in a crash collision. Any comments or critiques I'd love to hear._

* * *

**CHAPTER 12 - NIGHT OF THE HUNTER**

Allison tightens her grip on her bow, and the string doesn't waver in her gloved grip. She keeps it pointed, arrow level with the man's heart.

He's a werewolf. He must be to have eyes that glow yellow like that, but the black that seeps into it makes it seem otherworldly. The smile on his face is confident, and without fear. She wonders if he really is the entity who manipulated a woman into clawing her own face off, then why aren't his eyes a sharp, electric blue?

Why are they still yellow?

"What are you doing here?" Scott's words are laced with an alpha's power and he growls low in his throat. His features have blurred to their usual wolfish morph, and his eyes blaze red.

The man spins around on one foot casually shrugging. Allison follows him along the path of the arrow, and her muscles grow stiff at holding the string in place.

"The usual," he says, "Checking stuff out. Meetin' up with old… friends…" he sneers the word, and then stops, considering them. He glances down to one side, neck twisted at an odd angle as he looks to the concrete tarmac beneath him.

"What did you do to that woman?" Allison threatens him.

"_I_ didn't _do_ anything!" he protests, but his tone is full of sarcasm, as if he knows exactly what happened and why but isn't saying.

"You're a werewolf!" Scott snarls, but looks unsure about that statement, "You're an omega… where's your alpha?"

The man doubles up, a laugh bubbling out of his throat like lava. "Alpha?" he snarls, and his eyes blaze yellow for an instance before he blinks them back to brown. He takes an angry step forwards, "You little…" he stops himself angrily. "You're out of your depth," he says instead, shaking his head.

"You're on our territory," Scott growls, and Allison takes her cue, letting the arrow fly. The man doesn't move, and it passes by his face with inches to spare. It hits the wall and dents itself into the mortar but finding no purchase falls to the ground with a clatter. The yellow-eyed man just quirks his lip, as if amused by the feeble attempt to harm him. Scott moves forwards, sleek and dangerous. His hands flash out to the sides, claws extended.

There is a deep growl from something in the shadows ahead of them. Scott stops walking and the man laughs again.

"You really have no clue, do you? So how about this puppies? Wanna' meet a real dog?" he grins, and then throws up his hand. "Sic 'em boys!"

Another horrible growl rings out and something moves forwards, cloaked in shadows. Allison draws another arrow and aims, but there is nothing to fire at. The shadows shift across the ground and for a moment she sees the outline of a giant dog shape, and she lets the string slip from her fingers.

There is a yelp as the arrow collides with the moving shadow, piercing it as if the shape there is solid. The head of the shaft is no longer visible, and from where it clings to the blurred shape something black drips from mid-air like ink weeping from the pages of a book. The whine turns into a bitter bark that sends fear running through her, as if it is branding itself onto her very bones.

"So how. About. You _run_." the man enunciates them calmly. The invisible monster's bark turns into a howl that Allison is more accustomed to hearing on a hound dog, just before it's about to catch its prey.

And Scott, Lydia and Allison… they are the prey.

* * *

Nate slams the door to the apartment on the howls. There is something ancient and old and powerful about them. The scent of fire and brimstone sits heavy on the air. She swallows down her hysteria, squashing it down because Lexi will smell the fear on her, in her breath and clinging to her skin, along with the distant scent of blood.

She closes her eyes and slips down to the floor, the door at her back. She thinks about stalking the other pack through the night, and about the woman and her rising hysteria, her panic and lust for beauty.

A door slams above her and she springs to her feet in one swift movement, throwing back the emotional mask and plastering a grin to her face.

"Yo Nate!" Jethro calls down to her from the upper floor. He's hopping around on crutches, looking pale and weak but otherwise happy and energetic. "Please tell me you brought back food."

She trots up the stairs and slips her bag off her shoulder. She considers throwing it at him, but there are dark shadows under his eyes and a cold quality to his skin. She relents, and props her knee up against a window, pulling out a bag of fries.

"Oh my god, Natalie I love you," he worships, reaching out for them. She waves the bag away, glaring silently. "Nate," he corrects with an exaggerated eye roll. "Nate, the wonderful and amazing…" she shoves them into his hands just to shut him up. He almost overbalances, but with his elbow propped up on his crutches and leaning against the wall he delves one hand into the paper bag and brings out a greasy handful of chips. Fries: as they call them in America. She had narrowly avoided walking out of the shop with a packet of crisps.

Nate turns away, to avoid the spectacle of Jethro eating. "Want ketchup?" she offers, gazing distractedly out of the window. There are sirens wailing, and she thinks that one of the other pack members must have called an ambulance. She hopes they got out and away from whatever demon was stalking the night time streets.

There is a brief flicker of guilt but she squashes it down, dropping the ketchup in the bag of fries and moving past the teenager to where Lexi is still awake, reading under a lamp.

In her emotional turmoil Nate doesn't think much about Jethro, standing outside the room. She certainly doesn't think about what creature he might be, or what species he's a crossbreed of.

And she certainly doesn't remember that the dark haired boy can read minds.

* * *

Allison and Scott can't see them.

It's like their positions are reversed. Standing in the darkness of the alley mouth, Lydia can see the monsters, while the trio are the ones who whisper with the ghosts.

She doesn't know which is better. She's pretty sure that the huntress can't see the monsters, beyond a shadowy blur enough to hit the beast with an arrow. She imagines that at most, Scott can only see a hazy outline.

Then again they aren't banshees.

Not that she really knows what being a banshee entails beyond the whole death seeing stuff.

And obviously observing monsters in their true form as well…

She can see the mass of the great beast, like some sort of demonic pit bull. It's built like a dog, but looks nothing like one. Its flesh is non-existent and instead the muscles, tendons and bones are exposed to the night air like an anatomy dissection. She can smell it too… and the smell makes her want to choke. It smells like blood, but the scent is rotted and sticky, cloying. It sticks in her throat until she's drowning in it, wanting to gag but there is nothing to cough up.

The creature bares it's teeth, and it has two sets of jaws. She doesn't think that should be possibly, but the monster has so many rows of black silver fangs as it's maw gapes open, it's the only thing to explain it.

The eyes are dead, a milky white that rolls and then sights unnervingly on them. It stalks forwards and leaves bloody footprints in its wake.

It stops when Allison shoots it, the arrow piercing it's shoulder. It yelps, twisting, and Lydia stumbles away as the shoulder wrenches, shifting out of place. She can hear the grind of the bones, see the shape morph until it's head can snap around to tear the arrow free.

The monster hound barks and the man laughs.

"So how. About. You run." he suggests, and Lydia follows that advice, stumbling backwards because she doesn't dare turn away from the monster. The bark turns into a howl and there is the sound of another arrow whipping through the air before Allison turns tail and legs it. Scott stands alone for a moment, and then figures the rest of his pack is probably right and follows.

They stagger out of the dead-end street and into the light of the road. There is the whine of a car engine as Allison draws out another arrow, aiming but she's not even looking in the right place.

"Two o'clock!" Lydia screams at her, as the hound comes barrelling out of the alleyway, it's joints clicking as it moves, like some sort of demonic insect. It's throat convulses, blood running down it's chin like saliva.

The arrow flies true as Allison adjusts her target accordingly. She's shooting blind, but it hits home, piercing the throat. The beast lets out a gurgling cry, it's bones and joints shifting again as it struggles to remove the offending object. Its wet scream turns into a shrieking howl and in the distance there are more barks.

Headlights blind Lydia of an approaching car that skids to a half. She stupidly recognises Stiles' jeep as the brakes screech and the door is thrown open. The hound is yelping, its body shifting and black gore flying out as its jaws snap and snarl. With the beast distracted, the trio move away from it, towards the jeep.

"Get in!" Isaac shouts at them, and then proceeds to scramble out of the way. They really need a better getaway car, Lydia thinks, as she clambers as fast as possible in and over the seat into the back, falling on top of Isaac. Allison follows and Lydia almost gets her eye poked out by the bow as Scott slams the door closed.

"Floor it! Go, go, go!" he shouts and Stiles obediently slams his foot down on the accelerator. In the back Lydia, Allison and Isaac struggle to sit, and it's virtually impossible, their shoulders and hips clashing. Allison eventually slumps on Isaac's lap while Lydia curls awkwardly next to them. Allison's weapon is resting across their laps, half on the floor and half on the seat.

"What the fuck?" Stiles shouts at them as he spins the wheel violently around, "What the hell _was_ that?"

"There's something… the guy… the beta… he set something on us."

"It's a dog," Lydia speaks up, "A giant hellish dog." She over enunciates to make herself heard over the dreadful roar of Stiles' jeep. She wonders where Allison left her car, and thinks it would have been much more comfortable than this. Something slides on the floor and she realises it's the books they bought the other day, still squashed onto the floor.

"A dog?" Isaac leans around Allison, "That sounded like another pack!"

"He set them on us," Scott snaps, "There was just one and then Allison shot it and it freaking howled…"

"Oh my god," Allison's hands fly to her mouth, "What about the woman? Turn around… we have to get that woman…"

"The one bleeding on the sidewalk?" Stiles asks, "Haha, no, we're not going back. We called 911 for her!"

"And when the ambulance gets there?" Scotts shouts, at the same moment Lydia demands. "But there's no signal."

Stiles waves his phone around, and then drops it as he slams on the brakes for a traffic light. The light is red and Lydia wants to roll her eyes, because of course the idiot stops for traffic when they have giant monster hounds on their tail. "There's signal now." Stiles says, observing the non-existent other traffic. Next to her Isaac mumbles something about there being a time and a place for safe driving but it's muffled by Allison's hair.

"But the hounds are back there!" Scott shouts, pointing a finger over his shoulder towards the back window, "What are we going to do about them! You can't even _see_ them! They'll rip the town apart."

"The _town_?" Allison repeats, "You're worried about the _town_?" she sounds indignant. "Don't you get it?! Those hounds aren't being set on the town. They're being set on _us_! We're the prey. They're _hunting_ us."

And in the distance something shrieks in a blood curling howl.

* * *

Nate's thoughts roll over and over and they taste sour, full of worry and panic. There's an edge to them though, that is sharp and cold, like ice, and it takes Jethro longer than it should understand that. Once he realises though, he knows what he's got to do.

Nate is scared. And not just for the three of them, but for the pack that are out there right now.

Because of the demon that is out there right now.

He acts as if he doesn't know, just as Nate wants him to act, ignorant of the evil outside the door. But Jethro is patient. Jethro can wait.

Nate might want to hide away like a coward while people die but he can't.

Like all dogs the two sisters settle down after a good meal. It's a bad comparison, because wolves are nothing like dogs, not really, but nonetheless it's less than half an hour later than Lexi and Nate are in deep sleep. The pair had been up all night, Nate creeping around town and Lexi awake in worry for her sister, Jethro snoozing and occasionally trying to keep his eyes open to keep her company. Now the pair are now dead to the world. Nate's head twitches as his crutches click across the concrete to the stairs, but he makes it out of the door before she awakens.

The stairs are harder to navigate, and he's already sweating heavily by the time he makes it to the ground floor. He would kiss the ground, if not for the fact he doesn't think he'll manage to get back up again afterwards.

Outside the sun is barely poking over the horizon, and the bustling town has not yet awoken. He's relieved, because to be hit with the loud barrage and the general chaos of people's thoughts would be overwhelming for him. Recently it's been quiet, just Nate and Lexi and the two werewolf girl are usually blank spots on his senses, if not for the occasional emotion which drifts out from them like a flagrance of perfume. Out here though the humans are so caught up in their own little worlds, no walls or defences and it's like a hundred TV screens viewing different shows at once.

Then again there is nothing good showing at four, five o'clock in the morning and the air is quiet and chilled. Jethro had also spent most of his life blocking out the frequencies. It's become almost second nature to him, and most of the time he hardly thinks about his extra ability, lest he abuses it. The only exception was chemistry tests, and then again, that was chemistry.

Sighing, he grips hold of his crutches and draws his jacket around his shoulders, beginning the arduous process of swing, walk, move, swing, walk, move…

It's going to take him a while.

* * *

Deaton looks as fresh and youthful as ever, even when they show up at his surgery at five in the morning. Maybe the guy just doesn't sleep, Scott considers, as they move in, constantly aware of their surroundings as if they could be jumped at any moment.

He wishes they had somewhere better to go to than the animal clinic, considers that Stiles might be right: they really need a decent base. Derek had the right idea, but his choice of base sucked, because really… abandoned train stations? Random empty buildings…?

Derek had no style.

"Hounds, you say?" the veterinarian frowns, flicking through some of his druid books. Lydia and Stiles have stolen one and are pouring over it.

"I don't get it!" Lydia whispers angrily from where she is pouring over the bestiary on the table. Pages flick past as she skims through each page. "What are they? And where are they?"

She asks the question that is on everybody's minds. Isaac brushes aside the blinds, peering out. It's not like he's going to see much, but he is silent, mouth slightly open as he scents the air and listens.

"It's possible that they've lost your scent," Deaton looks up from the book he is leafing through, "That something interfered with their ability to track you down. It buys you a little bit of leeway and time to prepare."

Scott leaves Isaac on lookout duty and joins the rest of his pack. He looks down at the book Deaton is looking at. Upon the realisation that he doesn't speak Latin and the words make no sense to him, he turns to Stiles. "How the hell did you know to get there in time?" he asks. "If you hadn't turned up we'd have been dog food."

"Isaac," Stiles shrugs, and said werewolf turns. "He heard the flare of Allison's arrow. Then a scream as we got closer. It must have been the woman."

Allison frowns, "She was… I… my…" she swallows the words, and then spits them out, "My mom told me you were in trouble." she says.

Her dead mom.

Scott bites his lip.

Deaton looks interested, "Are these ghosts always helpful?" he asks.

Allison shakes her head numbly and Stiles snorts into his hands. Scott just considers the blonde girl in the distance, occasionally scrawling symbols on his belongings and shakes his head. "They're not harmful," he tells the vet carefully, "But they're not exactly what I'd call helpful."

"When you made a sacrifice to the Nemeton," Deaton moves over to rummage through a drawer. "You tied yourself to its source of power. You opened a door."

"Is that where the ghosts came from?" Scott asks, leaning towards the vet curiously.

"I think the ghosts were here already. The spirits… are restless." Deaton has cryptic down to a fine art. "They linger here, tied to the Nemeton. I imagine that the hounds, being tied to the dead, are confused by the ghosts present. It will give us an hour, two hours tops before they'll find you amongst the ghosts clinging to the town."

"So now we're linked to the Nemeton, we're linked to the ghosts." he concludes, because it's not as though Deaton is going to do it for him. "Why are our ghosts different? Shouldn't we be seeing the same ghosts?"

"No two people are alike," Deaton shrugs, "And so you don't see the same two ghosts. It's not as much the ghosts manifesting themselves to you, as to you slipping through to them. You're reaching out, unconsciously to the Nemeton and they're reaching back."

Scott shivers, uncomfortable. He stares out to the window and wonders where the hell hounds are. They're taking their time and it makes him uneasy. "As if ghosts were bad enough, we've got more wolves in town." He sighs, because they never catch a fucking break, do they?

"It appears that the darkness of the Nemeton has drawn something far worse than your rival pack and a few ghosts." Deaton says gravely. His features are stiff, as if carved out of stone.

"That woman…" Allison whispers. "She was trying to peel her own face off." She winces in disgust.

"Was it that guy?" Stiles asks, wide-eyed. Without his coloured string he's making all these links out loud, and whispering with Lydia as they switch books for another one, "Can werewolves do that? Make people do what they want them to?"

Deaton shakes his head, "Only alphas can command those lower in the pack hierarchy. And if the woman had been a werewolf she would have healed."

"We are assuming of course, that it is a werewolf." Deaton presses his lips together in a fine line.

Isaac moves over from the window, "So we've got what? A pack of killer rabid dogs on our tail and a maybe-werewolf...who can… manipulate people into clawing their own face off from a hundred metres down the street…?" He sounds disbelieving, but those are the facts.

"Shut up Isaac," Stiles grouches, "Go stand guard."

"Just stand on lookout Isaac, for dogs you can't see Isaac," the beta mutters, but moves back towards the window. He pushes asides the blinds and then turns around. The sun is rising, and the day already is looking dull and awake. "What are the chances we lost them?" he asks, hopefully.

"Low," Lydia says, curled up on the chair with the bestiaries. The one she is leafing through looks like a print out of the Argent's copy, crisp pages with the occasional note in red pen in the margin. "I think… guys I think I've found it… but…" she shakes her head and dumps the book on the table pushing it forwards. Scott peers at it.

"Holy…" Stiles splutters as he sees the accompanying illustration. "Is that what they…?"

"Yes." Lydia remains composed.

Scott tears his gaze away from the blood illustration and looks at the archaic Latin. "And that means…?" he prompts, "What is it?"

"Hell hounds." Deaton answers, and moves over to a drawer.

"It's some sort of demonic pit bull," Lydia whispers. Her smile is a thin lipped grimace.

"Hell hound?" Stiles repeats, "Like… Cerberus? Hades' pet…" he struggles for a word, "Monstrosity?"

Isaac ducks away from the window again. He really makes a rubbish lookout. "So we can sing to it?" he asks.

"This isn't some monster from Harry Potter," Deaton shakes his head, "They're trained hunting dogs that retrieve the souls of the damned."

"Well that is mildly irritating," Stiles lets his head fall into his hands, elbows propped up on the table. "Where's the useful information, such as how about how to kill them?" Stiles asks hopefully, and his head swivels around to look at Deaton.

The vet drops a bag on the table in front of them but doesn't open it. It's made of hessian, and is bound with a piece of string. He pushes it across to Scott and the alpha werewolf hesitates in touching it.

"Mountain ash?" he asks.

"Doesn't affect them. This is called goofer dust. It's a mixture of graveyard dirt and some herbs, but it will work the same way. Use it to seal the doors and windows, any entrances. It won't hold them off forever but it will give you time."

Allison is pacing back and forth, "And can we kill them?" she asks.

Deaton tilts his head to one side, "Not that I know of…" he begins hesitantly, "There are rumours of a kurdish blade that can… but it's nowhere that you can get it easily."

The huntress spins around and back again, anxious energy thrumming through her. "So we're going to die? Is that it?" She sighs and then answers her own question. "Dammit of course they're invincible monsters. It sounds like some sort of bad horror movie." the huntress sounds frustrated, and tense. They've just missed being eaten early morning, and now they have twelve odd hours before the sun sets.

"No," Stiles leans forwards, "This always happens. With the kanima. The alpha pack. The Darach. They're always so much more powerful and we always fight through. And you know what? We come on top. So I say we come up with a plan before those suckers rip us to shreds and we mutilate them beyond hellish recognition." There is a fire shining in his eyes, and Scott's never been more glad that Stiles isn't a werewolf. His best friend might be part of his pack, but not in the way that Isaac or the twins are. Because his friend doesn't bow to his orders like Isaac, he presses against Scott, forcing him to become a better leader and sparking off his own ideas.

"Stiles' right." Allison nods. "And there isn't just us, there are the twins, my dad… someone must have some idea of how to stop this guy setting his pet poodles on us."

Scott thinks calling them 'poodles' might be a bit strong, but he agrees. Isaac might be the only beta werewolf in Scott's pack, but in terms of dynamics Allison and Stiles are his seconds in command.

"So we get everyone we can," Allison concludes, in full out hunter mode now, "And when the time comes and they're after us, we shoot them so full of silver and mountain ash that they're too injured to injure us. Let that guy set his pets on us then."

Scott nods determinedly. The vet nods slowly, "That sounds like it might work. Whatever sent them after you will get bored eventually."

"Whatever sent them after us?" Scott repeats, "You don't think he's a werewolf, do you?"

Deaton looks worried. And not just 'you're dog is going to die' worried but more 'this could blow up the town' worried. "Hell hounds come, as the name suggests from Hell."

"Hell is real?" Stiles asks. He then starts violently and gazes around at something Scott can't see.

Deaton nods.

"But… really… _Hell_?" Stiles presses.

Deaton just looks grave, "There are far worse things that crawl out of the bottomless pit that just mutated dogs."

Scott just closes his eyes, exhausted. He hates Thursdays.

* * *

"Grab any weapons you can find." Allison instructs as they enter her apartment. They're not planning on staying, especially not with other people in the building. They'd be at risk too if they hang around for too long, and none of them want that.

They're mainly here to pick up weapons and to find Chris Argent. Instead Allison paces into the living room frowning. "It's weird," she says to the empty room, "My dad should be here. He wakes up when a mouse squeaks."

She paces around the living room before stopping, spotting the bright florescent yellow post-it note on the fridge. She moves towards it, plucking it off and reading it.

Turning quietly back to Scott she crumples the note in her hands, "He's on a hunting trip. Tracking down leads on ghosts." she says, evidently frustrated by this. "He turns his phone off when he drives. I won't be able to get hold of him until this evening." She grits her teeth and in a burst of anger unusual for Allison kicks out at the wall. "Dammit!" she snaps.

Scott tries not to think of what Chris Argent was hunting, and also tries to hope that Isaac isn't helping himself to any electric batons. If there are any (which considering the Argents there probably are) he'll have to make sure Stiles doesn't steal one. The last thing they needed was Stiles Stilinski with an electrified baseball bat.

"Where's your mom?" Allison says suddenly, and he slips his hand into his pocket, looking for his phone.

"She's… at work I hope. She works weird shifts." He pulls out his phone, wondering if he should even bother to see where his dad is, and then decides he doesn't care. He's slightly desperate as he holds down the speed dial and waits for the screen to shift into call mode.

A picture of his mom materialises on screen and a small ringing noise can be heard. Allison watches for a moment, and then moves over to her father's desk to rifle through the drawers for ammo, head ducked and trying to pretend that she isn't listening.

Despite his mom being at work, she still answers on the second ring.

"Scott? What are you…? It's five AM, Scott, you should be asleep." she sounds disapproving, but also worried, because if he's phoning her this early before its usually necessary to be awake then something must be up. "Do I need to come and get you…?"

"Mom, no, no don't come home, stay at the hospital, okay?"

"Scott. What's wrong?"

"Look, has a woman come in with claw marks up her face?"

"Scott…" her voice has dropped into that warning tone, and she sounds fed up with him and his supernatural troubles less than a minute into the conversation.

"Please. This is important."

There is a frustrated sigh, "The ambulance picked up a woman, late-twenties from an anonymous 911 call. I take it that was you?"

"Is she okay?" Scott repeats, "Mom…"

"Scott…" her voice falters, "The woman died shortly after reaching the hospital."

Scott leans forwards, convinced that he must have misheard. "What?" he repeats. Allison looks up worried, "What do you mean she died?" he asks out loud, "Her injuries weren't life threatening!"

He can almost picture his mother's shrug and confused frown, "Doctor Osmodai said her head was bleeding from a heavy trauma. The bleed in the brain… well they couldn't get to it fast enough."

Scott swallows, but his throat is dry, and the air rasps down it uncomfortably.

"You're not a doctor Scott," his mom tells him, "Obviously things were worse than they appeared. You tried your best…. But what happened?"

"She…" Scott falls silent, unable to process the idea that they had in some way let the woman die. Maybe they even killed her if the head wound had been the cause. In knocking her out to save her life… they had doomed her anyway.

Still at least it was kinder than her own death at her own bloody hands.

Allison's expression breaks as he shakes his head sharply at her, gaze desolate and hopeless. She backs away, assumedly to seek solace in where Isaac is raiding the Argent weapon store.

"Scott," Melissa snaps on the line, "What happened?" Her voice is curt, frustrated. "You need to tell me." She instructs. "I am your mother, and I can't have you run around at midnight and being involved in suspicious deaths." her tone is unusually harsh, "You promised me…"

"Mom…" he says weakly, and she must hear the desperation in his voice.

She sighs and speaks again, this time her voice calmer. "I… I'm sorry… It's just early." She sounds like she is resting her head in her hands. "Tell me later?"

"Promise," he lies, wondering if they are even going to be around later.

"Just… don't do anything stupid," she begs. "It seems like every time things begin to look up, your little pack manages to go out and find trouble again. I wish you wouldn't."

"I won't. I promise. I…" Isaac and Allison emerge carrying a duffel bag that clinks as the beta werewolf swings it with ease onto one shoulder, "Look, I've got to go. Love you mom."

He hangs up as he hears the faint reply, a weak grin on his face, not reflecting his inner turmoil or guilt. He drops his phone on the table and turns to his friends.

"We're taking this back to the clinic." Isaac tells him.

Scott nods, "I'm going to find the twins."

"Now?" Allison stresses, "Scott we're running out of time."

He bites his lip, something he hasn't done in months. "We need all the help we can get." He tells them, wishing it wasn't true, and that they could handle this. "Ethan and Aidan could help turn the tide in our favour."

Allison can't really argue with that at all. She just looks concerned. "Hurry." She tells him. Next to her Isaac nods in agreement, and for the first time since they've unofficially got together Scott doesn't feel that twinge of resentment, jealously, bitterness and sadness.

"I'll see you soon," he promises, and then walks out of the door.


End file.
